


Inktober 2018

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Character Study, Family is made not born, Getting back into the writing flow, Guilt, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, background Johnlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 24,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: After a lack of writing and posting for over a year, I am trying to get back into writing, and so my friend and I are doing the Inktober 2018 Challenge.  Each chapter will have the number of the prompt, the prompt, and any trigger warnings.





	1. Poisonous

**Author's Note:**

> But, Cicero, you might be asking yourself, Inktober is a drawing challenge, not a writing challenge! I know. Sorry. Anyway, while Sherlock Holmes was my first fandom back in '99, this part of the fandom is new to me, but I love reading Mystrade, so here we are. There might be some additional fandoms thrown in, but I'm not sure. It depends on what each day brings.
> 
> Also, nothing is beta read so if there's any weirdness, I apologize. Please tell me so that I can correct it. Thanks!

The touch of his hands – poisonous – of his lips – poisonous – of his tongue – poisonous.

How else can Mycroft explain the lethargy that swells through him as Gregory touches, kisses, looks at him. Gregory's eyes trap him, and then his touch captivates him utterly. The press of his lips immobilizes him; the slide of his tongue makes him tremble.

Mycroft is tempted to reach for Gregory, but knows that further contact with the skin will make the poison stronger. He reaches behind him to steady himself against the wall. This move just makes him feel vulnerable. Gregory steps up closer to him as if to help steady him, but the warmth of his body just rushes to Mycroft's head, dizzying him.

Gregory has not stopped kissing him, but his hands have moved instead to his waist. Mycroft feels his fingers burn through layers of fabric, and to his horror he hears himself moan, soft and wounded. Gregory shivers, and kisses him harder; Mycroft's hands are now on his shoulders. The poison must have already moved to his upper extremities because he does not remember allowing his hands to move, to card through Grey's soft silver hair, or to stroke down his torso and admire his firm muscles.

Gregory's hands are now on his back, stroking up and down, so gentle that it makes him want to weep. Strong emotions must be symptoms of the poison. He never feels the need to cry, not when his heart shatters into nothingness, nor when his heart aches so hard that he bows from the pain, nor when it beats hard at the thought of the heroic man in his arms. He does not need to be treated with gentleness.

Mycroft sighs as the kiss ceases, but then shivers as Gregory's lips move to his neck. He tries to remember what they had been discussing before Gregory poisoned him. He tries to remember so that he can distract himself from the feel of Gregory kissing down his neck and his shiver at the unexpected pleasure. Has anyone ever touched him like this? Of course not. He would never have allowed it. No one has ever gotten this close to him before.

More kisses, deep and desperate. He has cradled Gregory between his legs, one leg high up on Gregory's hip, the other firm on the floor, helping to hold them up as they press against the wall. Mycroft does not remember how he got here. Memory problems are another symptom. No, not memory problems. If he bothered, he could picture Gregory's dark eyes looking at him for permission, and his own numb hands drawing Gregory back into a kiss. But he did not want to remember. Gregory had called him beautiful, so fucking beautiful, and Mycroft did not want to examine those words and call them out as lies.

His hands itched to feel every part of Gregory that he could reach. He wanted to try all the acts he had read about or watched but never experienced. He also wanted to tear himself away and hide. He was not prepared for any of this. He hated feeling so out of his depth. Then Gregory's hand stroked down his back to cup his backside, and Mycroft startled himself out of his panicked thoughts with a loud moan and a hip jerk against Gregory's body.

Could this be survived? Mycroft was not sure.

"God, so beautiful."

I'm not, my dear.

"What you do to me."

I make you angry. I lie to you. I keep you waiting. I'm frigid and hollow, like an old tree abandoned in the wilderness.

"I want you so much."

I don't know what I'm doing.

"Please," Mycroft whispered. What am I asking for?

Gregory kissed him. This kiss was less passionate but no less loving.

No! Don't say love. The Ice Man cannot feel love. He would not know what to do with the sentiment.

"How about dinner tonight? We'll go somewhere quiet."

"I…"

"Just to eat."

Hunger, another symptom. So was need. Mycroft burned with it.

"Yes. Yes, that seems suitable."

"Good," Gregory said, smiling.


	2. Tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tranquil (noun) - free from agitation of mind or spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! Dipping toes into a new fandom is always so scary, but you've been so great. I hope you like today's entry. :)

Mycroft Holmes had a difficult time achieving true quiet. Unlike his brother, whose thoughts raced around like wild birds squawking for attention, he had learned to control the thoughts that could race just as wildly in his head. This control did not bring him quiet. Instead, he had the qualities of someone with sedate stability, but he never achieved true tranquility.

He had tried many remedies, nearly everything except for drugs – his brother's choice – and alcohol – his mother's choice. Running helped, in addition to keeping him slim, as did ambling about in nature, which he rarely got the chance to do. What helped most of all was to be alone. His father had encouraged him in his endeavor. Sometimes a person just needed to be alone. His mother and brother seemed to thrive on the energy of others while he and his father truly rested when they were alone.

He regarded it as a failing, but one that he would have to deal with. Sometimes there was no way to ensure time alone, for example, if he were at a summit meeting or a government emergency. He eventually built up his immunity so that he could go for days without needing to be alone.

Anthea knew, and tried to ensure that he had time – even ten minutes at a time – to sit in silence. She understood, but then again, she was paid to understand. His experience though was that few would. The occasional potential partner would complain of neglect if he asked for time alone or accuse him of seeing someone else. He grew weary of the unfair accusations of suitors – as if a Holmes would ever be unfaithful to his love! – and so gave up. He was not built for the love of another.

Then Gregory came along. Gregory understood that he needed time alone. Mycroft was surprised to realize that Gregory also needed time alone. He was so effortless in his dealing with people – even with Sherlock! Gregory did not feel insulted when he asked for time alone, but Gregory also seemed to know when Mycroft wanted to be alone because it complimented his feelings of loneliness or because he did not wish to discuss his worries.

It was such a relief to find someone who understood.


	3. Roasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roasted (past participle) - to cook by exposure to dry heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started out, I didn't intend for these prompts to be a part of the same story, but it looks like that is how things are shaking out. This prompt happens before the first two prompts. (Mycroft and Greg aren't actually a couple yet.) I hope this isn't too confusing.

The backseat was cold; Mycroft preferred it that way. As a boy he had hated having to go outside in summer. Not only did he dislike the heat but also the gritty sweat and the lack of clothing. He loathed having to put on a swimsuit and splash about although he loved the challenge of learning to swim. His brother was an unexpected water bug, loved everything about the awful process, and mother would force him to come with them whenever they went to the beach or the pool. Sherlock flicking water into his face was still a memory that made him grit his teeth in humiliated anger.

Next stop, Baker Street. He took a deep, cool breath before opening the door and stepping into the street. August in London could be absolute hell, and this was such a day. Sometimes Mycroft thought that Sherlock deliberately picked the hottest days to force him from his air-conditioned lair and into this oven. He envisioned himself roasted with an apple in his mouth.

Once up the stairs and into the sitting room, with a polite knock of course, he was provided little relief from the heat. John was sitting in his boxers - thank you, John, for covering up at least a little - and Sherlock was in his pajamas. He was carrying from the kitchen two glasses of water. He frowned as Mycroft entered.

"Mycroft," John said as he lowered his newspaper. "What brings you by?"

"The Candlewhite Case," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock handed John a glass of water, and John smiled his thanks. Sherlock's smile morphed into one of genuine pleasure, and Mycroft felt a pang. They were so happy.

"The Candlewhite Case is solved. What more do you want?" Sherlock said belligerently. He sipped his water.

I want a glass of water, too. One might think you were raised in a barn with those manners, Mycroft thought. He kept these thoughts to himself though since he was not eager to extend his stay. Instead Mycroft said, "You are in possession of some evidence that you did not hand over to the police." He heard the telltale shift of John in his chair, which he did whenever he felt guilty but tried to ignore that guilt. "Candlewhite's journal contained nothing about the case, and yet you kept it anyway."

Sherlock started to speak, and Mycroft cut him off. "Don't lie to me. I know you have it. You are merely keeping it to vex me." Mycroft was frustrated by his brother and uncomfortable from the heat. Try as he might, he felt his anger build. He should not allow it; mother would not approve.

"I kept it because it will help me with another case I predict will be coming my way soon. Vexing you is just a bonus." Sherlock smirked at him, and touching his fingers to the water in his glass, then flicked the water into Mycroft's face.

John must have seen thousands of soldiers lose their composure, Mycroft thought. That was his explanation for John's worried call of Sherlock's name. He had not finished before Mycroft had the glass in his hand and then the glass was hurled against the wall. He could count on one hand the number of times he had lost his temper in front of Sherlock. That having been the fourth occurrence, he would need a new hand soon.

Both he and Sherlock just stared stupidly at the wall. He heard John move behind him and into Sherlock's bedroom. "That makes a change," John said, his voice becoming softer as he moved away. "Usually it's Sherlock who destroys our glasses."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, and saw a moment of regret before Sherlock controlled his expression. They stood awkwardly as they always did when one of them went off-script.

John returned with the journal, and handed it to Mycroft.

"Thank you," Mycroft said. He tried not to flush with humiliation, but he was overheated and out of sorts. "I'll send a cleaner to ensure all of the glass is removed."

John nodded, and then to Mycroft's horror, asked, "Are you alright?"

Mycroft tried for a haughty look but suspected he looked more like someone with an upset stomach - which actually was not a lie at this point. Anxiety always sought his gut first.

"I am well, John, thank you for asking. I shall leave you now."

Mycroft turned on his heal, and told himself that he was not running away.


	4. Chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chicken (noun) – 1. the common domestic fowl (Gallus gallus) especially when young; 3. coward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to skip over 4. Spell because this scene comes right after the previous scene (3. Roasted). Hopefully no one minds.

Gregory Lestrade turned the corner to see Mycroft's car drive away from Baker Street. He sighed at the missed chance to see Mycroft, and continued to his destination. There was a one in three chance that John and Sherlock would be arguing at any given moment, but the flat was filled with an unusual quiet. Did they leave with Mycroft, he wondered.

He knocked, and at John's "come in," he entered. John was wearing boxers with cartoon crabs on them. The crabs were holding piña coladas. "Nice crabs," Greg said.

"Thanks," John replied. "Sherlock doesn't get the joke."

"The crabs are on your pants, not in them. It's an entirely different preposition."

Greg noted the fresh water-stain on the wall and then the chunks of glass that covered the couch.

"Been juggling again, Sherlock?" Greg asked, nodding toward the wall.

"No, that's Mycroft's doing," Sherlock replied after a series of complicated facial back-and-forths with John.

"Mycroft?" Greg said, surprised. He had never seen Mycroft lose his composure before other than that one time at his brother's side in the hospital.

"It was Sherlock's fault," John replied.

Sherlock surprised him by not arguing the point. Instead he said, "Mycroft does have a breaking point. I just never know quite where it is."

Greg replied, "I wish you wouldn't tease him. He's been under a lot of stress lately."

Sherlock harrumphed. "Maybe you should give him a hand." He then stomped into the kitchen.

"Give him a hand?" Greg looked to John for an explanation. At John's obscene hand gesture, he sighed. "I doubt Mycroft would welcome that."

John sat back down, and grabbed his newspaper. "How would you know? You haven't asked."

Sherlock walked back in with a hand-broom and a dustpan. "John, give Lestrade his novelty pants."

John reached under his chair, and tossed Greg an unopened package of boxers featuring bright yellow chickens with green umbrellas and matching galoshes.

"I think you know very well how my brother would respond. He is an utterly frigid, emotionally stunted romantic with a soft heart. He will panic at first, and then you will never be rid of him once you've tunneled past his icy exterior. The question then becomes…" Sherlock paused dramatically as he began to brush up glass. John rolled his eyes. "… are you brave enough?"

Greg bit his lower lip as he thought about it, looking at his new pants – they were very cute. "I'm going to need support."

"That's what family is for," John replied from behind his paper.


	5. Drooling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drooling (gerund) - 1. to let saliva dribble from the mouth; 2. to make an effusive show of pleasure or often envious or covetous appreciation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post yesterday. Work was busy, and I'm suffering from exhaustion. So you get two prompts today!

Summer colds were brutal, Anthea mused as she watched her boss's head drift down to his chest, and then jerk back up as he tried to focus. Anthea watched these repetitive actions for about twenty minutes. Mycroft Holmes was a dedicated public servant with an astonishing devotion to queen and country. He had once sat through a Skype meeting with a knife in his thigh because removing the knife would allow the blood to flow and he did not want to miss the meeting in order to deal with the injury.

But now he was sick and spreading germs everywhere. She watched his head make its final descent to his desk, and he was silent except for the little whistling noise of mucus that refused to move until the worst possible and humiliating moment. Mycroft hated when his body reminded him that he was human.

She waited until he started snoring and had begun the inevitable drooling that tormented someone trying to sleep and breath through their mouth at the same time. She wanted to force him to realize how sick he was.

"Mr. Holmes, sir?" she said, careful not to touch him. She did not wish to get sick, but she also knew from previous office naps that he sometimes reacted strongly when he was startled from his sleep.

Mycroft's breath caught, and then with an inelegant snort, he began to cough. She handed him a glass of water, and waiting until he had composed himself. It was difficult to look menacing when you were wiping dried spit off of your cheek.

"You should go home, sir," she continued before he could say anything.

Mycroft responded with an icy stare, and then started to cough again, this time into a tissue. "I cannot take a day of rest," he replied. "There is too much work."

"There is always too much work, sir. You have used that excuse before. If you don't rest now, you will be sick longer."

Mycroft huffed in disgruntlement, and then had to blow his nose. "I shall work through my illness," he replied.

"You don't want me to get sick, do you? Remember the last time?"

Mycroft did remember. Without Anthea's assistance, work was much more challenging to complete in a satisfactory manner. He had also been unable to discern where she had hidden the emergency chocolate biscuits.

Mycroft's uncertain expression made her pull out the big guns. "Just a couple of days. A reasonable excuse to stay home, indulge in some restorative quiet."

That did sound rather lovely. His temper had been rather short of late. He thought about his last visit to Sherlock and John's flat and his cowardly fleeing from Lestrade when he spied him coming up Baker Street. He tested the idea of spending the next two days with… Gregory, and embarrassment at being sick mixed with pleasure at the thought of being wrapped up in a blanket with Gregory on the couch with him.

Mycroft sighed, and then cough. Time to put away that fantasy. "Oh very well," he said. "But if there is an emergency, you must inform me at once."

"I will, sir," Anthea replied, already texting for the car.


	6. Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spell (verb) – 1. to read slowly and with difficulty —often used with 'out'; 2. to find out by study : come to understand —often used with 'out'; 3. To name the letters of in order
> 
> Spell (noun) – 1. a spoken word or form of words held to have magic power; 2. a strong compelling influence or attraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second prompt for today, and now I am caught up. This was the prompt for Day 4. Let me know what you think! I'll continue this scene with another prompt.

Sherlock had a key to Mycroft's flat in case of emergencies. It was a habit for the single members of the family ever since one of their single uncles had died and not been found for three days. Sherlock told Greg this when he had asked why Sherlock had a key when he could just break in. Both men were concerned when Mycroft did not text them back earlier that day. A quick check with Anthea told them that Mycroft was ill at home.

"You'd better check on him," Sherlock said.

"Why me?" Greg replied.

"Because I'm trying to set you up with him and him with you. Do cooperate, Lestrade."

"I'm not so sure he'd want me to see him sick."

"Do you not want to see him sick?"

"Only because I hate the thought of him sick."

Sherlock nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Then go check on him."

 

Why was everything so hot? Mycroft kicked off the blanket. He started to shiver, and pulled the blanket over him. Then he grew too hot, and kicked it off again. He had not felt this bad in many years. He coughed non-stop, his nose ran, and his body ached all over. He curled up miserably, thinking wistfully about someone providing him with cool cloths, tea, and a gentle touch. He could almost feel the touch brush his hair from his forehead and caress his cheek.

"God, Mycroft, you're burning up!"

That was not very soothing. Mycroft blinked up at the person now sitting on the bed next to him.

"Sick," he murmured, shifting closer. He could feel mucus sliding everywhere and let out a pitiful groan. "Never get sick though." He felt the back of fingers stroke his cheek, and sighed. "Feels good."

"We've got to get your temperature down," the familiar voice said.

Mycroft opened his eyes again, wanting confirmation that the voice he imagined matched the person sitting next to him. "Lestrade?"

"It's me. Sherlock sent me to check on you. I'm glad he did, too, because your fever is too high."

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied. "I'm never sick." His mind drifted for a moment, and then he said softly, "Gregory."

"Yeah?" Gregory said, looking at him in surprise.

"I just like your name," Mycroft said. He shivered at the fond look on Gregory's face. He had never seen that look directed at him before.

"I'm going to call John. Ask his advice. Might need to call an ambulance if we can't get your temperature down."

Mycroft grimaced, but became distracted by Gregory's hands as they worked his cellphone. He then looked at Gregory's eyes: large and brown, filled with kindness and patience. "Brown," he murmured.

At Gregory's questioning glance, he added, "Your eyes: brown. Lovely. B-R-O-W-N. Brown. I was better at spelling bees than Sherlock. He always got so impatient."

He listened as Gregory talked to John. Gregory claimed that he was burning up and "out of it." Mycroft disagreed. He had never felt more clarity while in the presence of another person.

Gregory hung up. "John says I need to bring down your temperature fast. Some paracetamol and then a cool bath."

Mycroft nodded against the pillow. Gregory left but returned quickly with a glass of water and two pills. He helped Mycroft sit up so that he could take the pills. Mycroft looked at the glass, and said, "I didn't mean to break the glass."

Gregory smiled, and replied, "Sherlock told me what happened. Frankly I'm surprised you haven't twisted his head off and punted it before now. Your self-control is amazing, Mycroft."

Mycroft preened at the compliment; he also enjoyed the feel of Gregory's strong hand on his back. "Sherlock can be trying sometimes." He looked at Gregory and smiled. (Greg was not prepared for the simple beauty of one of Mycroft's real smiles, and stared stupidly for a few moments.)

Gregory's returned smile made him feel a much more pleasing warmth in his chest and stomach. "Have you cast a spell on me, Gregory?"

"A spell?" Gregory said, laughing a little. Mycroft could tell that Gregory was not laughing at him but instead at the non sequitur. It was an odd question to ask.

"The things you make me feel when you are near." Mycroft knew that he should stop talking – that he would be mortified when he felt better – but his heart wanted to talk while his brain was busy with this blasted illness. "Hm… yes. You look like a prince, but you cast spells. You must be a witch. A witch prince. A prince witch?"

Gregory looked delighted. "If I could cast spells, I would cast one to make you feel better."

"Thank you, Gregory. That's very considerate of you. That's why you are a prince."


	7. Exhausted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted (adjective) – 1. completely or almost completely depleted of resources or contents; 2. depleted of energy: extremely tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt followed directly after the previous prompt.

Greg left Mycroft sitting in bed while he went into the bathroom. He started the water running while he looked for a thermometer. John said that he needed to get a reading before the tried to bring down the temperature so that they could judge whether or not Mycroft was getting better.

Mycroft was watching him intently when he returned, and smiled happily as he stepped closer. "Open up," Greg said, brandishing the thermometer. Mycroft frowned but allowed him to put the tip under his tongue. While they waited for the beep, Greg stepped back into the bathroom to shut off the water.

"103°," Greg read off. "Too high. Time to get you into the bath."

"Tired, Gregory," Mycroft said, sliding off of the pillow to one side.

"I'd summon a spell to whisk you there instantly, but I'm not actually a witch. I'll have to help you the old fashioned way." Greg took Mycroft gently by the upper arm to straighten him, and then pulled the covers off.

Mycroft began to shiver. "Are you sure this will help?"

"Yes. I've had to do this a few times for nieces and nephews, and once for myself," Greg said, helping Mycroft to stand. Mycroft started to cough, and he held him in place, trying not to think about the body he would soon see a lot more of soon.

"For yourself…." That seemed to convince Mycroft. He placed one hand on Greg's shoulder. Greg resisted the urge to pull him in closer.

He guided Mycroft to the bathroom, and began on the buttons of his pajama top. Mycroft startled. "What are you doing?"

"I can't put you into the bath in your pajamas."

"Why not?"

Mycroft's panic seemed more than just a result of fever-induced confusion. Greg recalculated, and said, "Let's just remove the shirt. That will make the coolness work faster. And it will be nice to get the sweat off, won't it?"

Mycroft blinked in confusion. "I… suppose." He picked at the pajama bottoms delicately. "I… I…"

Greg felt his heart ache at the discomfort on Mycroft's face. "It's just me, Mycroft. I won't say anything. No one will know. I want you to feel better, and this will help. You trust me, right?"

Mycroft nodded, and Greg smiled at him, hoping that Mycroft could see how happy his trust made him. "I'll protect you," Greg said softly.

"Like you protected Sherlock," Mycroft murmured.

"I'll always protect the Holmes brothers," Greg answered, placing his hands on Mycroft's arms. Mycroft looked exhausted, and Greg wanted him in the bathtub as soon as possible. "Just remove what you are comfortable removing, and we'll leave the rest."

Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged it off. After a moment of hesitation, he let the bottoms slide off, leaving him in a pair of boxers. "Is this…?" he asked.

"Perfect," Greg said, helping Mycroft into the bath. Greg was not in a position now to admire the ginger hair (more than he had pictured before) on his chest or the freckles scattered down his torso, arms, and legs. He felt the heat radiate from Mycroft's skin and wetted a flannel to further cover and cool his skin.

Mycroft's eyes closed after a few minutes, and he drifted off into a snorting half-nap, waking to blow his nose now and again. Sometimes Mycroft would shiver as Greg stroked the flannel against his neck or shoulders. Greg had longed to take care of Mycroft, and so he was indulging himself, content with this quiet time. It could only be more satisfying if he could also brush kisses against Mycroft's forehead.

After about twenty minutes, Greg took his temperature again. He texted John the results, and John was pleased. John offered to bring some invalid food (saltines, soup, and Lucozade) to Mycroft's flat, and Greg gratefully accepted.

Mycroft was pliant after he helped him from the bath. Greg's hear nearly stopped when Mycroft's arms came round his shoulders while he was toweling him off. Mycroft's head rested on his shoulder, and Greg felt a soft sigh against his neck.

Mycroft murmured, "Thank you, my prince," as his head hit the pillow, and he quickly fell asleep. Greg watched him fondly, and sat down to wait for John while watching him sleep.


	8. Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star (noun) – 1. a natural luminous body visible in the sky especially at night; 2. the principal member of a theatrical or operatic company who usually plays the chief roles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is a bit short but hopefully still good.

"Sir?" Anthea said. "It's 4:30."

Mycroft nodded, and Anthea withdrew from his office. He opened a new window on his laptop, and cued up the channel. After a couple of minutes, he face he had been looking for came upon the screen. Mycroft pulled out his allotted chocolate for this week, and enjoyed it while he watched.

Lestrade began to speak about the serial killed they had just caught. Lestrade ("Gregory," Mycroft murmured to himself) spoke with a confidence that Mycroft admired, sure in himself but not arrogant. His protectiveness was obvious to all who watched. He cared for the people of London and their safety. He and Mycroft had that in common, Mycroft told himself, although their temperaments differed. Arrogant was the least offensive thing anyone might say about him.

He was very grateful that Lestrade had taken Sherlock under his wing, due in no small part to his calming effect on Sherlock. Mycroft had tried to ignore Lestrade, but soon Lestrade had become the star of his fantasies, both sexual and domestic. He had never once fantasized about cuddling on the couch with anyone before he met Gregory (the Lestrade that existed in his dreams was called Gregory – the formality was necessary in the real world but not in his dreams).

He popped into Sherlock's crime scene, hoping to spot the man. Occasionally he would meet Lestrade while at Scotland Yard or Baker Street. More often they conversed on the phone or via text. He relished every moment with Lestrade. He knew his dreams hat to remain dreams, and he reminded himself that he would be uninteresting except for his power (and his Gregory was not interested in power). He had no chance with such an attractive man.

That did not stop him from watching him on the telly or using CCTV so he could surprise Lestrade with a visit. He was well aware how pathetic this made him, but only Anthea knew any of this. He trusted her not to tell. If he could just stop her from encouraging him to say something to Lestrade, his life could be as contented as it was very likely to be.

By the time Gregory's screentime ended, Mycroft had finished his chocolate, head in his hand and elbow on his desk. Thankfully he had recorded the spot so he could watch it again tonight.

The time to himself was restorative, and he returned to work in a good mood.


	9. Flowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowing (adjective) – 1. moving smoothly and continuously in or as if in a stream; 2a. smooth and graceful; 2b. hanging loosely and gracefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of order again. Sorry. I've bumped the rating up to E for explicit sexual content... which is what this chapter is. Enjoy!

Mycroft enjoyed the finer things in life, although he was perfectly capable of roughing it when he needed to. He preferred the feel of high quality cotton and silk against his skin, and saw no reason not to indulge himself in fine tailoring and expensive ornaments. While he did not spend excessive amounts, when he chose to spend money on himself, he did not hold back. When he saw what became his latest purchase, he had to have it.

The chocolate brown robe clung to him like he imagined those gentle hands might. Previously he had not been fond of the color, but after meeting a certain possessor of the most marvelous eyes he had ever gazed upon, he adored the color.

This afternoon he had spoken to Lestrade for longer than usual. He feared that seeing him sick would put Lestrade off, but instead Lestrade seemed even more congenial toward him, and Mycroft felt both relieved and shy. He wanted more, but how date he try? He was clueless as to how he would begin, even if he were brave enough to.

So tonight he wore this particular robe. After an indulgent scented bath, he slide into the silk and only the silk. He felt excessively wicked as the fabric swirled against his skin, catching and releasing his legs and cradling his back. In the TV room, he watched one of his favorite film noir movies, imagining Lestrade as the gruff detective with a heart of gold and the dressed-to-kill femme fatale as himself – lying from habit but falling into honest love with the detective.

The movie over, he reclined full-length on the couch, his fingers lightly tracing over his silk-covered stomach as he thought about Gregory rushing in to save him at the last minute, perhaps even manhandling him a bit roughly because he was so angry at how close a call it had been. Mycroft would thank him with kisses. He had little experience with much beyond that, but he knew that Gregory would show him.

He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, letting the curls scatter against his forehead. Gregory had stroked his hair while he was sick, and Mycroft had enjoyed it immensely. Hair caresses now factored into his fantasies. His fingers stroked through the curls as he ruminated on how strange it was that he did not mind touches when Gregory was the one touching him.

His eyes closed as he immersed himself deeper into his fantasy. He imagined it was Gregory's fingers stroking through his hair, pulling gently at the strands. He then stroked his fingers down his neck, shivering at the thought of Gregory's lips there. Maybe he would suck or bite at his neck. That would feel nice.

He moved his hands to stroke his upper arms through the fabric, moaning softly as the cool cloth pressed against his skin. Gregory's hands moved down his chest to his hips. Mycroft panted softly, wondering how it would feel to be held in place - to feel that warm body above him - between his legs and in his arms. He whimpered softly at the thought of not knowing how solid and warm Gregory's body would feel against him.

He brushed his fingers against his hard cock while he thought about Gregory watching him in his brazenness and encouraging him further. He felt embarrassed by his neediness, but told that negative part of his brain to hush until after his fantasy had ended. He doubted Gregory would leave a lover unsatisfied.

He stroked himself through the silk, laughing softly when Gregory told him to stop teasing him. He sought his cock through the folds of cloth, and groaned as he pulled himself free to the air. He felt the fabric brush against his shaft as stroked himself, and he indulged himself by letting himself vocalize his pleasure. He whimpered softly as he imagined Gregory, fully dressed, fedora still on his head, jerking Mycroft off. Mycroft could almost feel the hard desk under his ass as he writhed in Gregory's arms. Gregory would want him loud. There was no one else in the office after all- just them. Mycroft could scream his bloody head off and no one would care. They would probably just cheer them on. And after they were done, Gregory would take him back to his flat, and…

Mycroft cried out as he came, the pleasure so great that all he could do was pant and stroke himself, his brain shutting off to all but sensation.

As he came back to himself, he felt the beginning of heat in his cheeks. He knew that he was a horrible person for using Gre-, Lestrade, in so lascivious a manner, but for now all he did was stretch his satisfied body and wrap his arms around himself, drifting to sleep as he thought about cuddling up next to his spent Gregory, fedora still perched on his head.


	10. Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cruel (adjective) – a causing or conducive to injury, grief, or pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My schedule has gotten weird so I'm posting at odd hours. Sorry about that. Enjoy!

Sherlock and John's latest case had accidentally revealed a mole in the secret service. (It was probably accidental. John was never quite sure if Mycroft had known and used his brother as a way to reveal the mole without getting his own hands dirty or if Mycroft had been just as clueless but quick to respond with hellfire.) Mycroft was on the phone now; his accent was especially sharp when he was angry. It was one of the ways John learned how to tell when Mycroft was angry with Sherlock rather than just his usual condescending self.

John mentally shook himself. That was not true really. John had learned a lot about the elder Holmes since meeting Sherlock, losing Sherlock, then getting him back. He learned a lot from Sherlock's complaints. ("Sitting through a meeting with a knife in his leg – show off!", "He dragged me to every drug clinic until he found one that I didn't hate," and John's favorite, "He told me I look like a plum in purple so I wear it as often as I can just to spite him.") He also learned a lot from Sherlock's silence.

Sherlock was watching his brother now, a familiar look of deduction on his face. Last night Sherlock complained about how long it was taking his brother and Lestrade to get together. John regarded him fondly: Sherlock Holmes, the consulting matchmaker. They could make a fortune like that.

Mycroft ended the call, and sighed. "It will be another late night, I'm afraid." At Sherlock's studious look, he said, "What is it?"

"You're not eating. That is the opposite of your usual habits."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sometimes John wondered how he had not damaged them throughout the countless decades with Sherlock. "I have learned restraint since I was a child."

Sherlock humphed. "You are more tired than usual, you are aggravated more easily, and…" his eyes narrowed on the tie pin that matched his cufflinks, "you have once more purchased expensive frivolities."

John did not realize that Mycroft's face could look even more closed off than before. Mycroft was never an effusive man, but John had become used to the relative warmth in Mycroft's demeanor since Sherlock's return.

"You've often complained that I hoard my gold. Now you complain when I spend it? There is no pleasing you, is there?" Mycroft said, the sneer clear in his voice if not on his face.

"Do those baubles please you, Mycroft?" Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing.

John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his animal instincts responding to an unspecified danger. Why was Sherlock choosing now to start a fight with his brother?

"Why else would I purchase them if they didn't?" Mycroft said, his hand clenching his umbrella.

"Why else indeed?" Sherlock said, the mocking clear in his voice. "Do they listen to your troubles? Do they ensure you eat? Do they offer you any warmth?"

Mycroft's expression was no longer closed off. In fact, he was gaping rather stupidly at his brother. "Have you gone mad?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said, flinging his arms around in frustration. "I'm simply tired of waiting for you to realize your errors and come to your senses."

"My senses?" Mycroft said, voice getting louder. "I haven't a clue to what you are referring!"

"I am referring to Lestrade! You have known him for nearly a decade, and yet you persist in ignoring how much he means to you – what he means to us!" Sherlock gestured to the three of them in the room.

"I am very grateful for Inspector Lestrade's guardianship of you these past many years…."

Sherlock interrupted him. "Guardianship? Friendship! When Moriarty threatened to kill those who meant the most to me, Lestrade was one of only three other people in that gro-"

Mycroft interrupted him in turn. "Since when did you become an expert on feelings and emotions?"

" 'Caring is not an advantage,' you said."

"I said that," Mycroft said, looking a little stunned as to the direction of the conversation.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock said firmly. "Mother said that. Father said that. They drilled it into our heads and made us parrot it back. Soon you would parrot it to me. Even as you sat in my vomit, making sure I didn't choke during a drug-induced seizure, you would parrot it back to me. That is not us, Mycroft. I know this. Our parents abandoned me; you did not."

Mycroft had gone white during Sherlock's speech. "I would never abandon you, no matter how much you screamed at me."

"I know." Sherlock looked at John, and then said, "I came to you one night, terrified that I was trapped and unable to save those I loved. You and I cooked up a scheme during which you would protect them while I took out the threats."

John blinked back tears. He had hated Mycroft for a while after Sherlock's death, for not protecting his brother. He had never thought about how Mycroft had felt during this time.

"It was my duty to you," Mycroft replied. "To my little brother."

"And when I returned," Sherlock said, "you told me that caring was not an advantage. Then you told me John's address and said that I should never let him go. And I haven't."

John could not stand it anymore. He took Sherlock's hand, overcome with all sorts of emotions.

"I didn't know," John said, turning to Mycroft. "Thank you."

Mycroft looked shocked – but also pleased and a bit shy. "I was only doing right by you and Sherlock."

"And now you need to do right by Lestrade. He has been waiting for you-"

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock. He has no interest in me except perhaps this friendship you were yelling about earlier."

"Oh, John, was I ever this hopeless?"

"Yes, but so was I."

Sherlock smiled at him, and then turned back to his brother. "I recommend an honest conversation with Lestrade. It worked for me."

"Yes, and I am very heartened that it did, but you two loved each other."

"And you do not love Lestrade?"

Mycroft blinked and then kept on blinking. Both Mycroft and John startled when they heard a creak on the stairs; Sherlock did not.

Lestrade stood there looking back and forth between the warring parties.

John realized why Sherlock had started the fight. He had timed it so that Mycroft would speak while Lestrade was just entering. It had been a trap. He saw the betrayed anger flash in Mycroft's eyes.

"Your cruelty astonishes me sometimes."

Mycroft hurled out of the room and down the stairs, faster than he had ever seen the man move.

Lestrade shouted, "What the hell were you trying to do?"

Sherlock shouted back, "Go after him!"

Lestrade made a face, and ran down the stairs after Mycroft.

Below them they heard Mrs. Hudson shout, "What's with all the running? Sherlock, have you set something on fire again?"

Sherlock sighed.


	11. Guarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guarded (adjective) – 1. cautious, circumspect; 2. being an extremely serious condition with uncertain outcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely out of sync with the rest of Inktober. Oh well. This follows directly after the last prompt.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Greg made it down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk in record time. He did not stop when he saw the car door open, and barreled inside, colliding with Mycroft's body.

Mycroft looked at him, surprised, and then reached for the door handle on his other side. Greg panicked, grabbed Mycroft around the waist, and pulled him closer. The unintended consequence of his actions was that Mycroft was now half on his lap and their faces were just inches apart.

"Unhand me," Mycroft said, the angry cry doing nothing to hide the fear in his eyes.

"Not until you agree to stay and speak to me," Greg replied, hands firm on Mycroft's shoulder and lower back.

"I shall agree to nothing of the kind. I need to return to work." Mycroft was trembling in Greg's arms, and Greg immediately put aside his plans for a slow seduction. Damn it, Sherlock, he thought.

"I don't know what Sherlock said to wind you up, but it involves me. We need to talk," Greg replied, trying to soothe the frightened dove in his arms.

Mycroft rested a hand on his chest to push him away. "I…. " 

Oh god, I hope this works, Greg thought. He leaned forward, and placed a slow kiss on Mycroft's lip. Mycroft let out a soft surprised noise, and his hand tightened on Greg's chest. When Greg pulled away, Mycroft followed him, clearly wanting more. Greg could not resist, and kissed him again.

Greg pulled back just far enough to look into Mycroft's face. Mycroft's eyes were closed, and the blissful look on his face made him moan. Mycroft opened his eyes, and then swallowed nervously. "You wanted to… talk," Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. "Can we meet after work? I get off at 6 pm."

"Yes, yes, I should be done by then."

"Somewhere private or public?" Greg wanted Mycroft to be comfortable when they talked.

"Private," Mycroft replied after a brief hesitation. His expression was guarded now, and Lestrade wanted to kiss the fear away. He knew he could not, but he kissed Mycroft a few more times because they both wanted to. Each time Mycroft melted against him a little more. Both of his arms were now around Greg's shoulders, pulling him close. Their legs tangled together. Greg kissed the join between Mycroft's jaw and neck, and Mycroft shivered.

"Tonight. Your place or mine?"

"My place, I think. I'll send a car to pick you up."

Greg nodded, and smiled. "Until tonight," he said, kissing Mycroft one last time.

"Until tonight," Mycroft repeated, a little dazed, lips swollen, skin flushed, eyes alive.

Lestrade kissed him again, and again, and…

 

Mycroft turned to his driver as they finally got on their way. "Some guard you are," Mycroft said, although he was not really upset. "He manhandled me."

"Far be it for me to interrupt the course of true love," Henry said, grinning at him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Unbidden his fingers rose to his lips.


	12. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weak (adjective) – 1. lacking strength; 4. not able to function properly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows directly after the last prompt, Guarded.

Mycroft is shaking slightly when he returns to work. He was untangling too many emotions. Lestrade had kissed him! When he had left for Sherlock's flat earlier today, he had not suspected at all that this would be the outcome of his visit.

Not only was he analyzing his own emotions, but Sherlock's. Rarely did they speak about what they had done for each other or how they felt towards each other. He was shocked that Sherlock had spoken about such things in front of John. Family history should not be discussed in front of…

Mycroft winced. John was family now, he supposed. Sherlock's partner. Mycroft was glad that Sherlock had someone to trust and who took care of him. However, instincts – and his parents' oft-repeated instructions – were difficult to ignore. Do not speak to anyone about family outside of the family itself.

And now Lestrade had kissed him. How could this have happened? He thought back over the past few months. Sherlock had sent Lestrade to check on him when he was sick; that much was clear. Lestrade had tended to him in much the same way he had Sherlock when Sherlock was sick from illness or drugs. Mycroft had been slightly jealous of the attention he received from Lestrade, which was – of course – completely childish of him. Lestrade's – Gregory's – soothing touch had been worth the wait, and Mycroft was unsure of how to contrive a plan for more. He loathed the idea of appearing weak before others.

It turns out that all he had to do was ask. How strange that a grown man could ask for affection and it might be given to him freely.

Mycroft had no illusions about his own attractiveness. He had money, power, and an old family name, but not much else. He was not stunning in face or form, and while he was brilliant, he was also accustomed to prevarication. Gregory was gorgeous, warm, sexy as a man could be, and Mycroft could not quite wrap his head around the idea that Gregory could want him.

Gregory had kissed him. Mycroft realized his hand was in front of his lips again, touching them, and quickly put his hand down. He had to get back to work, or else he would get nothing done.

Anthea stepped in, and he said, "I need to have the remainder of this afternoon's tasks completed by 5:30. Can we accomplish this?"

Anthea smiled. He suspected that Henry had texted her right after he had dropped Mycroft off at his office. "We can, sir."


	13. Angular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angular (adjective) – 1a. forming an angle: sharp-cornered; 3b. lean and having prominent bone structure

The car pulled up just as Greg was leaving New Scotland Yard. The driver got out, and went around to open the door for him. Greg thanked him and got inside.

Mycroft looked perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. Greg smiled at him, and watched a blush slowly creep up Mycroft's neck and into his cheeks. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Good evening, Inspector," Mycroft replied, voice calm.

Greg could not wait to ruffle him up.

"How about calling me 'Greg'?" Greg said, giving him his boyish grin that he knew was affective. He buckled his seatbelt, watching Mycroft's eyes drift down to his hands, and then further down, and then back up. Mycroft was trying hard not to react.

"Gregory, if I may?" Mycroft said.

"You can call me whatever you like," Greg said, "so long as it's not so formal. We're about to go on our first date after all."

Mycroft blinked. "Date. Yes, date." He looked down at his hands, and said, "I was unsure if that was what you truly wanted. Events were a bit… hastened this afternoon."

Greg said, "I'm prepared to go more slowly, if that is what you need. But I didn't want there to be any confusion about what I wanted from you."

"And what do you want from me?" Mycroft asked, crossing his legs and arms over his body. Greg could feel the curtain being drawn between them. Mycroft sought to protect himself. If Greg ever found out who had hurt Mycroft, he would ensure it would never happen again.

He let his eyes drift over Mycroft's angular form. Mycroft epitomized masculine elegance; he possessed a beauty that Greg had spent years admiring. Greg knew that he was dangerous, but that only made his love for his brother and acceptance of his brother's friends all the more powerful. Mycroft loved whomever he loved and would fight to the death to protect them. Greg wanted to ensure that Mycroft had someone who would fight for him – someone who would adore him and allow him to be weak. Everyone needed someone to trust.

He returned his eyes to Mycroft's, and said, "I want to have dinner with you and get to know you. I want to kiss you and make love to you. I want to see what the future holds for us."

Mycroft looked stunned. Greg watched as Mycroft processed his words, frowning a bit. "I do not understand. You want me. And yet, I'm…"

"You're… what?" Greg said after a few moments of silence. "Beautiful? Intelligent? Witty? Someone I like very much and would like to get naked with?"

Mycroft's blush, which had calmed while he was caught up in thoughts, reddened anew. "Hardly beautiful," he replied. "Adequate at best."

"What?" Greg said, surprised.

Mycroft searched his expression, his own slowly filling with amazement. "You.. are… telling the… truth."

"I won't lie to you, Mycroft," Greg said, reaching over and taking one of Mycroft's hands in his. "I want you very much."

"I want you, too, Gregory," Mycroft replied, squeezing Greg's hand.

"How about we drop your things off at your place, you can change into something more comfortable if you wish, then we'll go to dinner. Sound good?"

Mycroft nodded.


	14. Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clock (noun, often attributive) – 1. a device other than a watch for indicating or measuring time commonly by means of hands moving on a dial  
> Clock (verb, informal) – 3. to hit hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt takes place after several dates but before they start cohabiting.

Mycroft watched the restaurant's wall clock strike the half-hour mark. Gregory was rarely late, at least, not without texting to let him know he would be late. Mycroft had texted him at a quarter past to see if Gregory knew when he would arrive, and had heard nothing. He was worried and also a little irritated. He was just about to all when his phone rang. John. He felt the worry fast outgrow his irritation.

"Good evening, John. What a pleasant surprise."

"I wish I was calling about pleasant things," John said, sounding tired and unhappy. "We're at the hospital. I would have called you sooner, but I didn't know you were waiting for Greg."

Mycroft was up and motioning for the waiter before John had finished. "What happened?" he said, hurrying to the front door. He stopped long enough to retrieve his coat from the attendant, and then hurried to the front to wait for his car.

"Arrest gone wrong. Greg got clocked, and hit the ground hard. Was unconscious for a few seconds. Sherlock, ah, punched the suspect a few times more than perhaps was strictly necessary to subdue him."

"I shall deal with any unnecessary quibbles about protecting London's law-biding citizens," Mycroft said. Henry had pulled up, and Mycroft updated him briefly. He knew Henry would get them there as soon as humanly possible. "How are they?" 

How is Gregory? Has he woken up yet? Whom do I have to threaten to ensure his health and happiness?

"Greg regained consciousness pretty quickly, but he has a killer headache. The doctor is checking him out now. He will be okay with rest and lots of hugs. Sherlock is getting splints on two broken fingers."

Mycroft felt incredibly proud of his brother. "I am relieved to hear that they are both okay. Gregory will be given time off from work. I shall see to that if it is not already given. Sherlock has my eternal gratitude."

"I'm relieved, too. When I saw Greg fall and hit the curb," John paused, and Mycroft heard what he did not say. Brothers-in-arms falling to the ground, thereafter never to move.

"They are both safe, John," Mycroft said softly. "You could just as easily have taken the suspect down yourself."

John laughed slightly. "You're right."

"I'm always right."

 

Mycroft hurried into the room, his eyes instantly on Gregory. Gregory was seated on the hospital bed, exhausted, but managed a smile when Mycroft arrived. John was waiting with him, and left as soon as he arrived, patting his shoulder on the way out.

"I'm sorry I'm late for our date, doll," Gregory said, clearly in outer space drug-wise.

"Are you okay?" Mycroft said, immediately dumping all of his stuff on a chair, and then hurrying over to Gregory. He rested his hands on Gregory's shoulders, uncertain where to touch. Gregory pulled him in between his seated legs, and hugged him tightly, seemingly without pain. Mycroft returned the embrace.

"I'm fine now that you're here," Gregory said. He let out a content sigh.

"John told me what happened," Mycroft said.

"The perp surprised me," Gregory replied. "Didn't hit me that hard, but I tripped. That's one for the scrapbook. 'Detective Inspector taken down by sidewalk.' "

"I'll make sure the sidewalk pays for what it has done to you," Mycroft replied. Gregory laughed in delight, and then groaned at the pain.

"The doctor says I need someone to watch me for the next day or so," Gregory said.

"I can watch you," Mycroft replied, already mentally adjusting his schedule. The prime minister would be upset, but then the prime minister was always upset.

"Are you sure? Your work…" Gregory said, but he was smiling. Gregory was firmly convinced that he worked too hard and should take more time for team-watching TV and blowjobs in the kitchen.

"I can make adjustments for the next day or so, and what I can't suspend I can do from home," Mycroft replied, mentally daring someone at work to pitch a fit. He would burn them to the ground.

"You are wonderful," Gregory said, pressing their foreheads together. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft's nose, then said, "Your place or mine?"

"Whichever you prefer," Mycroft replied. "I can work from either flat."

"Let's go to yours then. I love being surrounded by you," Gregory said.

Mycroft felt himself blush. Gregory made him so damned happy. How had he lived without this?

Gregory continued, "I just need to pick up some things from my flat before we go to yours."

"Anthea can pack you a bag, my dear. You should be taken straight home to rest."

Home. It was when Gregory was there.

"I'm a grown man who can pack my own bag. Besides, Anthea complains that I don't match my pants to my clothes."

Mycroft had heard, although to be honest, when he saw Greg in his pants, he had other issues in mind. But would it not be wonderful to take Greg shopping for clothes? Bespoke suits, pure cotton shirts, silk boxers with matching ties and pocket squares that hinted at the joy wrapped up beneath his clothes, all for Mycroft to unwrap.

"No," Gregory said, bringing him out of his fantasy. "You've got that look on your face. You're planning something."

Mycroft replied, "I am planning out our evening, my dear. Your flat for your clothes, then my flat. I shall call for take out so we may spend the optimal amount of time together."

"That's my kind of planning," Greg said, pulling Mycroft in for a kiss.


	15. Swollen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swollen (past participle of swell) – 1a. to expand (as in size, volume, or numbers) gradually beyond a normal or original limit; 2a. to become filled with pride and arrogance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is set sometime in the future after the Holmes-Lestrade wedding. Sherlock cried.

"Wake up, Gregory!"

"Ugh, uh," Greg looked up at Mycroft who was standing over him, naked except for a big smile, ginger curls sticking up everywhere. "Is there a fire?"

Mycroft gave him a fond, exasperated look. "No, today is the day we show off Amanda and Angus."

Greg groaned, and buried his head back into the blankets. "Too early, and it's snowing out." Greg yipped as Mycroft pulled the covers off of him. An answering yip further down the mattress let him know that the blankets had woken one of the dogs.

"Not too early. We need to ensure we arrive with plenty of time." Mycroft straddled Greg, pushing him onto his back. Greg rested his hands on Mycroft's legs, laughing a bit as his husband's exuberance.

"If you want me to get out of bed, this is not the way to encourage me," Greg said, sitting up so that he could get a kiss.

They kissed, embracing each other tight. Greg marveled at how close they had grown. Yes, this was sexual, but it was also about closeness and comfort. It had taken Mycroft a long time to ask for what he wanted and to let himself take it.

Mycroft sighed as he pulled away. "You tempt me, my dear." He looked at the alarm clock. "Perhaps we do have some time to spare."

"I've always got time for you, baby," Greg replied using his best 'American private dick' voice.

They laughed as they guided each other back to bed.

Amanda shook the covers off of her, and seeing that her pack leaders were busy, nudged Angus to follow her. They strode down the ramp off of the bed and onto the floor. They would allow a certain amount of time before barking their heads off for breakfast and walkies.

 

The car arrived in plenty of time, despite the light dusting of snow that made driving in London a nightmare. Henry dropped them off, and then took himself away to run errands. Greg waved as he always did, and Henry waved back. Mycroft had gotten used to Greg's inability to treat his staff as staff.

As soon as Amada, who was in Greg's arms, saw other dogs, she started to bark and wiggle, wanting to be let down. Greg made sure he had a hold on her leash, and then placed her on the ground. Mycroft followed suit with Angus, and their dogs eagerly guided them to St. Mary's Gate at Greenwich Park.

It was near Halloween, and so Mycroft had dressed their dachshunds in costumes. Amanda was dressed as a politician, with pin-striped black suit and accents of red, and Angus was dressed as a police officer, complete with little badge. Greg ensured that Mycroft always felt the holiday spirit; Mycroft was always in charge of their costumes.

Many dachshunds were in costumes, but others were in colorful coats due to the cold. Owners called out to Mycroft and Greg as they arrived. They participated every three months in _The Sausage Walk_.

Amanda and Angus loved meeting other dogs, and Greg was content to hold Mycroft's hand as they walked behind, parading their dogs through Greenwich Park. They were both casually dressed. You would not know just by looking at Mycroft that he was the most powerful man in the British government. He was wearing a knit hat, pulled down over his ears, and he was smiling as Amanda sniffed a dachshund dressed as one of Santa's elves.

A light dusting of snow made everything look pristine and peaceful. Mycroft turned to him, a few snowflakes on his eyelashes. Greg felt a swell of pride at his beautiful husband.

"I love you," Greg said, and grinned at Mycroft's blush.

"I love you, too," Mycroft replied, leaning forward to kiss him.


	16. Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottle (noun, often attributive) – 1. a rigid or semirigid container typically of glass or plastic having a comparatively narrow neck or mouth and usually no handle; 4. (slang, British) courage

"How many bottles do you think she will need?" Mycroft said.

Gregory stopped brushing his teeth long enough to reply, "She said ten. I'm not sure what sort of art she's going to make with ten bottles."

Mycroft hummed. He could get ten bottles easily from his staff. He could probably get ten hundred from them.

"Some recycling initiative, I expect," Gregory said, mouth full of toothpaste and spit. Mycroft preferred to brush his teeth, and then speak, but he had perfected the art of understanding Gregory's continued speech during his dental hygene routine. Gregory was wearing pajama bottoms, chest and feet bare. Mycroft felt a gentle heat at the thought that they could make love and he would feel those arms, but he could just also snuggle up next to Gregory and also feel those arms and the love that came with them. His ability to perform sexually was no prerequisit for affection.

"Are you going to try at Scotland Yard, or do you want me to ask Anthea to round up some bottles?" Mycroft reclined on the bed, watching Gregory through the bathroom door.

"Fancy Scotch bottles?" Gregory said, amused.

"Only the best bottles for your niece," Mycroft replied, smiling.

Gregory spit out the toothpaste, and began to rinse his mouth and then his toothbrush.

Mycroft watched his back muscles clench and release as he moved.

"Marry me," Mycroft blurted out.

Gregory missed the toothbrush holder, and just stood there, mouth gaping open, looking in the mirror back at Mycroft. "What?"

"Marry me," Mycroft repeated.

Gregory turned, surprise still obvious on his face.

Mycroft pinched the sheets nervously. "I cannot bear to be parted from you any longer. I was going to ask you Friday. The ring isn't even here yet. But I cannot wait."

"I…" Gregory started to blink, and Mycroft realized that he was blinking back tears. Before he could panic, Gregory rushed to him, pulled him up to his knees on the bed, and was kissing him passionately.

Gregory started to laugh into their kiss, and Mycroft responded with his own giggles. When they pulled away, he said, "I do. I do, I do, I do!"

Mycroft laughed, full of joy. "Be mine forever."

"I already am," Gregory said.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorched (past participle of the verb) – 1. to burn a surface of so as to change its color and texture; 2b. to afflict painfully with censure or sarcasm; 3. to destroy (something, such as property of possible use to an advancing enemy) before abandoning —used in the phrase scorched earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Non-specific child abuse. This and the next two prompts are set after Mycroft and Greg have been dating for a while but before they move in together.

Mycroft had suspected that the visit would be awful, but he had not anticipated how awful it would be.

"Are you sure a diversion is good for you, Mycroft? It might distract you from your work."

"He has not, father," Mycroft replied with an ever so slight emphasis on the 'he'. "I have become more efficient in my work." Possibly because he wanted to get everything done as quickly as possible so that he could spend as much time as he could with Gregory. Mycroft kept that reasoning to himself.

"Come now, dear," mother said. "You know that your dalliances never kept you from your work."

Father glared at her.

Mycroft looked blankly ahead.

Mother smiled sweetly at her husband, and then turned to Mycroft. "To your father's credit, he did produce with me two lovely children."

Here we go, Mycroft thought. "Congratulation to you both," he replied a bit sourly.

"Hold your tongue," father replied. "Your mother has brought up a serious consequence of your indulgences."

Mycroft did not wish to say anything on the matter. He knew that Sherlock had spoken with John about some experimental science that would allow them to produce children from both of their genetics. Mycroft could barely acknowledge to himself that he wanted to adopt – that the idea had been a part of him since he was a teenager. He had not spoken to Gregory on the matter, so he did not wish to speak for them both, but he had to say something. 

"I have no desire for children," Mycroft replied. "My work would keep me from participating fully in their lives."

"That's why you marry a woman so she stays home to take care of them," father said, his nod decisive.

Mycroft wondered if Anthea come stand here in his place and tell his father exactly how awful his plan was. Her misogynist alarm was probably ringing right now despite being a hundred miles away.

"You know very well why I shall not marry a woman," Mycroft replied. "While women are wonderful, I am not attracted to them."

"You should pretend," his father replied. "You would go much farther in your career."

Mycroft could not advance his career much farther unless he killed the royal family and declared himself king. Mycroft resisted shaking his head – resisted just getting up and walking away, never to return – and said, "I am happy in my position, father. I am indispensible to the government."

"No one is indispensible," father said. "You shouldn't think so highly of yourself."

You are wonderful, Mycroft remembered Greg saying last night. I love you more each day and night. I can't wait to spend the rest of our lives together.

"I only know what others tell me," Mycroft replied, fighting the ice that settled in his heart at his father's words. He picked up a biscuit, intending to distract himself with a sweet of passable quality, when he saw his mother's disproving look. He put it down, acid churning in the back of his throat.

"You are getting old," mother added. "So are we. We want grandchildren to continue the family line."

"Father's brother has children," Mycroft said. "The line will continue."

"I'm referring to my line," father replied, pointing at himself. "The eldest son of the eldest son. The pinnacle of our family blood. I won't allow you to end it."

Mycroft rolled his eyes before he could control himself. "What are you going to do, force me to produce a progeny?"

His father stood suddenly, looming over him. His hand was balled into a fist. Mycroft was surprised by his father's show of restraint. Thirty years ago, Mycroft would have been on the floor. Even though Mycroft felt the fear throughout his limbs and in his gut, his expression remained calm. He raised one eyebrow and waited.

His father's hand twitched at his raised eyebrow. "I don't know how, but I will."

"Dear," his mother said, "don't make your father angry."

I don't care how angry you make me, Gregory had said. I would never hit you. What sort of man hits the people he loves?

Don't go see him, Gregory had said. You owe him nothing.

I wish I had listened to you, my dear.

Mycroft smirked at his father, and watched his father's face go red with rage. Mycroft stood, a smooth motion that belied the terror he felt. He was surprised to note that he was taller than his father. In his mind, his father always towered over him. "I make my father angry by my mere existence, which I should point out, is not my fault."

Mycroft checked his phone, making it look casual, after if he had not a care in the world. In fact, he was hitting the "pick me up NOW, Henry" text he had prepared while in the car on the way here. Perhaps scortched earth was the best tactic for dealing with his parents.

"I have fulfilled my duty as the eldest son to inform you of the health and wellbeing of your children. Having carried out those duties, I shall depart."

"Don't you dare turn away from me while I'm talking to you," father said.

Mycroft shivered, unable to stop himself. He had heard that tone many times. "You have no power over me," Mycroft replied. "I owe you nothing."

He put his phone away, ignoring the fact that his father starting to spit angry words. "Now, I am going to go home to the man I love. We are going to have dinner, read, and then engage in non-reproductive sex. Have a good afternoon, father, mother."

Mycroft turned on his heal and walked. As his father roared his name, he ignored his pride, and ran.


	18. Breakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakable (adjective) - capable of being broken (violently separated into parts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt follows directly after the previous prompt, Scorched. It will conclude tomorrow.
> 
> Sexy times ahead.

Henry texted him. 'I hope you're home now.'

Greg was just putting away groceries. He intended to make Mycroft's favorite comfort food after the visit with his parents. Greg was very proud of his five-cheese mac 'n cheese, and the first time Mycroft had tried it, he had made Greg promise – before he had eaten his third bite – that he would make it again.

'I am,' Greg texted back.

'He's in a bad way,' Henry texted after a few minutes.

Shit, Greg thought. Mycroft had been dreading the visit; he had even had a nightmare last night about it. Mycroft rarely had nightmares when they were together, and the only other nightmare he had ever had was about Sherlock overdosing. Visiting his parents was on equal footing to finding his beloved brother dead in his flat.

'How long until you're here?' Greg texted.

'Twenty minutes,' Henry texted.

'Texted when you get here. I'll be ready.' Greg texted.

He had the mac 'n cheese in the oven, Mycroft's favorite film noir set up in the DVD player, blankets and pillows on the couch, and tubes of lube placed prominently on the coffee table and bedside table. He switched to his soft blue sweater that Mycroft liked to pet when he was in it, and grabbed the chocolate-colored robe that Mycroft preferred, intending to wrap his lover in it as soon as he arrived.

His phone pinged with a text, and he hurried to the front door. Nothing happened, and so Greg stepped out to collect him. Henry stepped out, shooting a concerned look towards Greg. He opened Mycroft's door, and Greg settled next to him, taking his hand.

Mycroft looked at him, his face white, his hand shaking slightly. "I ran from him," he said softly. "He got angry, and I ran."

Greg pulled him closer, and cradled him against his chest. Mycroft curled against him, head on his shoulder, hands arms in front of him, protective of himself. "I'm glad. You ran to me. Good. You knew I'd protect you."

"You're not ashamed?" He could not see Mycroft's face, but he felt the brush of Mycroft's eyelashes against his shoulder as he blinked.

"Never, baby. Never. I'm so proud of you. You stood up to him, and then you left."

Mycroft was silent for a few moments. "Please," he said softly. "Take me home."

Greg nodded, and guided Mycroft out of the car, keeping an arm on his shoulders and one of Mycroft's hands in his. He smiled his thanks to Henry, and then guided Mycroft inside. Mycroft sniffed as soon as he entered, and smiled. "Your macaroni and cheese?"

"I though you would like it after your visit."

Mycroft spotted his chocolate-colored robe over one of the kitchen chairs and said, "You have everything prepared for me."

"Anything you want, love. If I've forgotten anything-"

Mycroft interrupted him. "No. No, you've done so much."

Greg kissed him, soft and slow, until Mycroft began to relax in his arms. "Change your clothes. Get comfy. I'm here to spoil you tonight."

Mycroft looked for something in his expression, and whatever he found made his shoulders lower a bit from their hackled position. "I shall be but a moment."

Greg had finished tossing the simple salad to go with their dinner when Mycroft returned, and nearly dropped the bowl. Mycroft had showered briefly – Greg had heard the water turn on – and was soft from the heat. His hair was fast drying, and Mycroft had not bothered to put any product in it, allowing the curls their freedom. Underneath the silk robe he wore nothing, and the robe made it clear by clinging to his form. Greg's attention was drawn to his pale neck, and the scattering of freckles he knew led down Mycroft's arms and back.

"Holy hell," Greg said, awkwardly putting the bowl down before he dropped it.

Mycroft smiled, biting his lip. "You said comfortable."

Greg swallowed, and then nodded.

"I'd be more comfortable if you were kissing me now."

Greg pulled Mycroft close, his hands smoothing down Mycroft's back to the small of his back. They kissed, slow and deep, Mycroft's hands in his hair. Greg could feel every part of Mycroft's body pressed against him. He slid a hand down Mycroft's butt, palming him roughly, and then pulling him close.

Mycroft moaned, and tried to get closer, angling his head to kiss deeper. His hands roamed Greg's shoulders and back, then dipped under to stroke his skin.

Greg blindly pushed aside bowls and dressing, and lifted Mycroft up onto the countertop. Mycroft moaned again into his mouth, and crossed his legs behind Greg's back, pulling him closer. Greg kissed down his neck. "God, fuck, you're wonderful," Greg murmured, licking a broad swipe with his tongue against Mycroft's pale skin, and then nibbling.

Mycroft gripped the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "You drive me wild," he murmured, kissing Greg's temple, hot breath making Greg shiver. "I forget everything but you."

"That's what I want, baby," Greg replied. "Forget everything except for me."

Mycroft took his chin in his hand and guided him up for a kiss, licking a slow circle around Greg's lips before diving in. "Gregory," he murmured against Greg's. "I want…"

"What do you want?" Greg said, taking hold of the back of Mycroft's knees, and moving him closer.

Mycroft gasped, and ached his back, letting out such a deep groan that Greg could feel his cock ache. He pushed his cock against Mycroft's, making them groan again. "Make me forget," Mycroft said, gasping. His robe was hanging loose from his body, which was flushed and damp with desire. Mycroft looked fragile – breakable – and Greg felt protectiveness swell within him. He would do anything for Mycroft.

Greg left one of Mycroft's legs hooked up over his arm. The other arm he used to pull Mycroft close. "You've imagined this before," he said softly.

Mycroft whimpered, hiding his face against Greg's neck.

"No, no, don't be embarrassed, baby. Do you know how hot that gets me? That you imagined me here?"

Mycroft kissed his neck, and murmured, "I've imagined you in a lot of places."

Greg moaned.


	19. Drain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers for the 1955 film noir movie _Kiss Me Deadly_ , but nothing really about the plot and mystery itself.

Mycroft felt the rest of his fear drain away as Gregory moaned. He was here, safe, and Gregory would protect him. Gregory would not make fun of him or think him silly for his fantasies.

He leaned back a bit so that he could kiss Gregory. He felt the silk drape around him, robe now off of one shoulder, pooling in his arms. Greg's hand reached under the silk and stroked his stomach, and he moaned into his mouth.

"Please," Mycroft said, pulling away just far enough to speak. "Touch me."

"Love to," Gregory said, stroking down Mycroft's stomach to caress his penis, which was beginning to ache. Mycroft whimpered as Gregory stroked him, those strong slightly calloused fingers pleasing both in feel as well as in sight.

They kissed, soft and deep. The only sounds were the slick sounds of Gregory's hand working and his own low moans.

"Soon," Mycroft whispered, and Greg nodded, stroking a bit quicker and biting down on Mycroft's shoulder through the silk. Mycroft's arms tightened around Gregory's shoulders, and his back arched as he came. He sighed against Gregory's shoulder, boneless and content.

 

A few hours later, Mycroft was snuggling against Gregory as they watched _Kiss Me Deadly_. Dinner dishes were on the coffee table along with the wine glasses. Mycroft was wrapped in his silk robe, and Gregory was barefoot but otherwise comfortably clothed. Mycroft was stroking Gregory's sweater clad stomach as they watched, and Gregory's arm was around his shoulder, keeping him close.

Mycroft's mind drifted as they watched the TV. He had seen this movie so many times that he had it memorized. He had been relieved when the original ending to the movie became available; he had wanted Hammer and Velda to survive together, not die in a house fire.

He returned his attention to today's meeting with his parents. He would not be surprised if he heard from Sherlock later that his mother had called to berate Mycroft. Mycroft had never been so brusque to them before. Another reason for him to settle down, he thought glumly. A woman's gentle touch. A loving home. Mycroft sighed.

"What is it?" Gregory asked, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and then returning his hand to his shoulder.

"My parents," Mycroft replied. "They wanted me to settle down with a woman and have children. They said I'm getting old."

Gregory rested his other hand on Mycroft's, which was slowly stroking his stomach. "Yeah, and what did you say?"

"I told them that I was perfectly happy with you, a man." Mycroft frowned. "Father still isn't happy with my position in government. He thinks I can go higher."

"He wants you to run for prime minister?" Gregory asked. "You'd be miserable in the spotlight."

"I'm the eldest son of the eldest son of our family. I should want more prestige… more tradition."

Gregory said, "I think you are perfect as you are. I mean, you should learn to relax more, but that's why I'm here."

Mycroft looked at him, and smiled. "You have taught me so much, Gregory. My life is much improved with you in it, and I cannot imagine ever being without you."

Gregory's expression lit up with joy, and he kissed Mycroft gently. He made a noise, and pulled back. "Hang on. I forgot one more treat."

He ran off to the kitchen, and then returned with a plate of ginger biscuits. "I was stress baking this afternoon," he said sitting down. "I know you love them so I made a bunch. You can take some with you when you go back to work. Anthea and Henry can have some, but these are for you."

Mycroft thought back early to the cookie his mother had shamed him into putting down. This cookie would no doubt taste a lot better. "You are spoiling me, my dear. I've already put away too many calories this afternoon."

"Yeah, but you're going to work off most of those calories tonight," Greg said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mycroft laughed softly, and picked up a cookie. It was wonderful, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside; just sweet enough and with a proper but not harsh ginger kick. He moaned as he chewed. "Dear heavens, Gregory."

Gregory smiled, and took up his own cookie. "Your kitchen is amazing, Mycroft. It makes me want to bake and cook everything."

Mycroft though about all the cookbooks he could buy him. He thought about asking Gregory to move in officially. Gregory already had a lot of clothes and personal belongings in his flat already. Scotland Yard was becoming used to a large black car dropping off and picking up their detective inspector.

Gregory added, "And my audience is so appreciate."

Mycroft blushed, "As long as you don't mind your audience widening as the years go by."

Gregory shook his head. "More to love, baby. More to love. And like I said, we'll work it off."

Mycroft finished his cookie, and eagerly grabbed another. "I am coming around to your way of thinking," he admitted.

"I'm glad," Gregory said, pulling him close. He kissed Mycroft's cheek, and said, "I love you just as you are."

Mycroft felt that familiar swell of relief at Gregory's words. "I love you, too, just as you are."

They kissed, and the kiss deepened. Mycroft pulled back, and reached for the hem of the blue sweater that made Gregory look so dashing. At Gregory's nod, he pulled it off of Greg's body, and put it over the back of the couch. He guided Gregory to recline on the couch, and moved so that he could straddle Gregory's hips. He trailed fingers up Gregory's chest, admiring the muscle beneath soft skin and hair. He leaned forward and kissed Gregory again, humming his pleasure as Gregory's hands moved over his back, holding him close.

Mycroft thought about earlier.

You shouldn't think so highly of yourself.

You are getting old.

I make my father angry by my mere existence.

Throughout his life, Mycroft had always felt adrift. He only felt moored twice in his life, when he realized that his intelligence and position gave him the ability to protect everyone in the United Kingdom, and later, when he learned that Gregory wanted him. Gregory did not want his power or money, just his time and his love. Gregory wanted to bake him cookies to take to work. Gregory wanted to cuddle on the couch and watch movies. Gregory wanted him, and it was a glorious feeling, one he would fight to the death to protect.

Mycroft felt some barrier within him collapse. Gregory pulled him close, having seen something in his eyes that caused him concern.

Mycroft looked at Gregory, and said, voice soft and sincere, "I am exactly where I should be, and so are you."

Gregory grinned up at him. "You are here with me, baby. Together. We'll weather it together."

"Move in?" Mycroft asked. "I want your terrible ties next to mine. I want you to bake me more cookies and then reassure me when I eat them. I want you…"

"Yes," Gregory said, tightening his arms around Mycroft and kissing him forcefully. "Yes, tomorrow."

Mycroft laughed, "Yes. Tomorrow. I'd say tonight but we shall be otherwise engaged in preemptive celebrations."

Gregory giggled, and said, "You read my mind."


	20. Whale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whale (noun, often attributive) – 1. any of various very large, aquatic, marine mammals (order Cetacea) that have a torpedo-shaped body with a thick layer of blubber, paddle-shaped forelimbs but no hind limbs, a horizontally flattened tail, and nostrils that open externally at the top of the head; 2. one that is impressive especially in size

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: SeaWorld was founded in Orlando in 1973. That's about as much research as I did for this prompt.
> 
> Trigger warning for brief mention of child abuse.

The whale was bright green, stuffed, and had a large smile. It was among many stuffed animals on the wall of the SeaWorld Orlando gift shop. In no way did the stuffed animal resemble an actual whale, but Mycroft wanted it as soon as he saw it.

"Mummy!" Sherlock said as he picked up everything in sight and then put it down with a loud bang before moving on to the next thing. "Mummy, mummy, I want a turtle! And a dissection kit."

Their mother had a firm grip on Sherlock's other hand, keeping his destruction in check, but she smiled indulgently at him. "Let us find you a turtle, my dearest. Mycroft, find Sherlock a turtle."

"I don't need my fat brother's help," Sherlock said loudly, his insult reverberating through the room. Mycroft heard several giggles from various other park goers, and felt himself turn red. If only the ground would swallow him up then and there. The Florida humidity had both his and Sherlock's hair sticking out on all sides. While it made Sherlock look like an adorable moppet, Mycroft looked like an explosion in a q-tip factory. It didn't help that he had gotten sunburned within five seconds of arriving and was particularly tasty to the mosquitos. Mycroft hated Florida.

"Mycroft, find your brother a turtle," his mother repeated.

Mycroft sighed, and began the arduous process of finding the perfect toy for his little brother. Several toys were selected and rejected. Mycroft picked up the whale, and said, "What about a whale instead?"

"That's the toy you want, fatty. I want a turtle!"

Mother laughed. "Oh Sherlock, you know your brother doesn't want a toy."

Sherlock paused, a look of confusion on his face. "Why not?"

"He's too old dear."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Too old for toys? Impossible!"

"Do not argue with me, dear."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft for confirmation. "Are you too old for toys?" he demanded.

Mycroft felt a sense of pride that his brother always came to him for the truth. He did not wish to lie to his brother – he did want that toy – but he knew his mother would not approve and his father would take it away, along with a very physical punishment for transgressing some boundary. "All boys must grow up into men," he replied.

"Will I become too old for toys?" Sherlock turned back to their mother.

"Eventually. We all become too old for toys," she said, caressing his curls.

Sherlock looked appalled. Mycroft thought about his father's toys: cars, radios, cameras. The hypocrisy galled him.

"Then I demand two toys before I get too old!" Sherlock grabbed the whale from Mycroft's hands, and stuck his tongue out at him. Then he grabbed a stuffed red turtle, and said, "I am ready."

Mother laughed, and guided him to the checkout area. Mycroft followed behind them, angry and hurt.

 

Later that evening at the hotel, Mycroft pulled back the covers on his bed to see something wedged under his pillow. He raised the pillow to see the whale he had wanted underneath it. On a piece of hotel stationary, Sherlock had written in his childish hand: I shall pretend it's mine.

Sherlock was already fast asleep in his own bed, faced away from him, so Mycroft could not say thank you. He curled up with the whale, and fell asleep.


	21. Banana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banana (noun) - an elongated usually tapering tropical fruit with soft pulpy flesh enclosed in a soft usually yellow rind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt replaces the prompt 'precious', which I could not complete. My friend Vicky suggested banana, not realizing what I would put poor Mycroft through. ;)
> 
> This is set well before my other prompts but after Sherlock's return from the dead. Therefore, it mentioned Greg's guilt. Despite that, it's not a sad prompt.
> 
> Enjoy!

Greg was just about to have his afternoon snack, a banana, when Mycroft Holmes appeared in his office at New Scotland Yard as if summoned. Greg had been thinking about him quite a bit lately. Sherlock was back from the dead, Greg was finally told the truth, and Mycroft had yet to apologize to him. To be fair, neither Holmes brother had apologized to him, nor did he expect any apologies, but he was still angry. Worse, he felt betrayed.

Greg smiled at Mycroft, his smile polite but not particularly welcoming. "Can I help you, Mr. Holmes?"

He watched Mycroft's expression pinch a bit in displeasure, but otherwise he remained calm and unruffled. "I wish to speak with you about Sherlock."

"Oh yeah?" Greg answered, pealing the banana while he waited for Mycroft to get to the point. Mycroft's posh and captivating presence could not distract him from his hunger.

Mycroft nodded. "I had hoped that your displeasure would not manifest as an unwillingness for Sherlock to take up his former role as advisor to Scotland Yard."

Greg looked at the tip of the banana as he frowned, then took a small bite, chewing as he pondered. He swallowed, and said, "I'm willing to work with Sherlock again. I just have no case for him right now."

Mycroft blinked. "He led me to believe that you were refusing him entirely."

"Oh, did he lie to you?" Greg said, then opened his mouth to take another bite of his banana. He decided for cheekiness – literally – and spoke around the piece in his mouth, his cheek poking out a bit. "Fancy that. Seems to be going around."

Mycroft's cheeks flushed slightly, presumably from his uncouthness. "I have explained to you why subterfuge was necessary. I do not understand why you cannot accept the logic of the situation."

"You really do not understand why I am upset that the suicide of the man I have been looking after and working with for almost a decade turned out to be faked? That for two years I thought a man I loved like a brother had killed himself, and I wasn't there to stop him?"

Greg watched Mycroft search for an answer as he opened his mouth for another bite. He slid the banana in, and took another bite, humming softly as he chewed. This was a really good banana.

Mycroft's cheeks had gotten redder. Greg wondered if he was about to explode in rage. "I quite understand your emotional attachment to my brother. If we had seen any other way of removing Moriarty and his team, we would have. But we had to ensure that nothing about your behavior changed after his death. You and John are not good enough actors to do this."

Gregory smirked. I bet you don't know that I want to throw you over this desk, and fuck you hard until you beg to come. I'm an excellent actor when I need to be. I want to push your primly crossed legs apart, and suck you dry. He discovered that he was licking at the edge of the banana as he thought about what he wanted to say next. He took another bite, and said, "You're still on my shit list, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked several times, and his face had reached a shade Greg had never seen before. He wondered if the man was having a heart attack. Before he could say anything, Mycroft stood up suddenly.

"I just realized that I am late for an appointment. We shall discuss this later, Inspector Lestrade. Good afternoon."

Mycroft hurried out of the room, slightly less graceful than usual, although that was still more graceful than the average human being. His umbrella was held in front of him like a shield rather than at his side like a dapper fashion accessory.

"Hm, I wonder what happened," Greg said, downing the rest of his banana all in one go, and thinking fondly of yester year when he could stick an entire banana in his mouth without discomfort. Maybe those skills would come in handy soon.


	22. Expensive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expensive (adjective) – 1. Involving high cost or sacrifice; 2a. commanding a high price and especially one that is not based on intrinsic worth or is beyond a prospective buyer's means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm back in sync with the prompts. :D
> 
> This prompt refers back to Prompt 11 - Cruel.

Sherlock was irritated that once again his investigation involved his brother. Someone was trying to defraud Sotheby's, and while Sherlock normally would not have cared about stupid people with more money than brains, he did care that the proceeds of this particular event were for the Evelina London Children's Hospital.

The event was supposed to be black tie, but Sherlock's family was rich enough that he could get away with ignoring dress code. Mycroft blanched, and then rolled his eyes when he saw him.

"Well-dressed as always, brother mine," Mycroft said, taking a sip of his champagne.

"Unbearable," Sherlock said. He had not seen his brother for a few weeks, but he had heard from their mother about Mycroft's atrocious behavior. He also knew that Lestrade had moved into Mycroft's flat the same day mother had called him. He added, "Where is your better half?"

Mycroft's expression turned from thunderous to delighted. "He is retrieving more champagne and some hors d'oeuvres."

Sherlock spent few moments observing his brother. Mycroft looked more relaxed than he had ever seen him before. He appeared healthier and oddly brighter than Sherlock remembered. Lestrade was doing him a world of good. This would not stop Sherlock from aggravating him deliberately, but he was grateful that his older brother had gained a measure of happiness. Of course, Mycroft's happiness was all due to Sherlock. Mycroft could be useless sometimes, and Lestrade was too timid.

"And what about your better half, Sherlock? I have not seen John yet."

"Also retrieving sustenance. John has a one-track mind. All he can think about is food."

"Food is very important," Mycroft said, draining his champagne glass and handing it to a nearby attendant.

Sherlock smirked, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes. They said a lot without speaking. I am glad you are happy, but I'll be on my deathbed before I say it out loud. If anyone tried to hurt you, I will make them pay dearly. Our parents are awful, and we may fight with each other, but we are united against them. They both nodded slightly.

"Sherlock!" He turned to see Lestrade and John arrive with food. He ignored the "I missed you" that Lestrade murmured to Mycroft, and the gentle kiss they shared. "What are you doing here?"

"Searching for a thief," Sherlock said, 'stealing' the grapes that John had put on his plate because he knew Sherlock would eat them.

"Some bastard stealing from kids?" Lestrade asked.

"Some bastard, yeah," John said. "We're here to watch for him. Sherlock knows who he is but won't say."

"I doubt you'd spot the thief especially since you assume the thief is a male," Sherlock said. A particular item up for auction distracted Sherlock, and he walked away from the group. They continued to talk, by this point used to his rudeness.

The item in question was an expensive frivolity he had seen before, a tiepin and matching cufflinks. He ran through the mental Rolodex in his mind-castle, and let out a soft "ah" as he realized where he had seen it before. It was the gaudy bauble Mycroft had purchased for himself while he was busy pining away for Lestrade. He noted a few other awful items that were Mycroft's in the selection. The starting prices would power several hospitals. Sometimes Sherlock forgot how wealthy Mycroft was in his own right.

He drifted back to the group, who were discussing Christmas plans. "Sherlock and I are having our usual Christmas party. Greg, I expect you to drag Mycroft along this year."

Lestrade laughed, and said, "I shall convince him one way or the other."

Mycroft smiled, and said, "I shall gladly come to your party. I think perhaps we might return the favor with a New Year's Eve party. Greg and I had discussed having a few friends over."

"Ugh," Sherlock said. "How dreadfully domestic."

"We'll be there!" John said, absolutely delighted. "Just let us know what to bring."

"We shall," Lestrade said.

Sherlock observed the body language. Lestrade had immediately put an arm around Mycroft when he arrived, and then kept his hand on Mycroft's back while he talked. Mycroft had touched Lestrade's tie to straighten it, but otherwise performed his duty of holding their plate. They stood close, and their body language spoke of complete comfort.

"Dreadful," Sherlock said again. "We shall bring wine or liquor. John can't cook, and I refuse to."

"Hey, I can cook," John said. "I just choose not to when I can't tell what has been used as lab equipment and what hasn't."

Sherlock watched Mycroft and Lestrade coo like two turtledoves, and then turned to John. "As a sign of my devotion to you, John, I shall help you clean the kitchen."

John smiled. "And I love you, too."


	23. Muddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 23\. Muddy (adjective) – 2a. full of or covered with mud; 3a. lacking in clarity or brightness; 3b. obscure in meaning
> 
> Muddy Waters (1913-1983) – an American blues singer-songwriter and musician who is often cited as the "father of modern Chicago blues," and an important figure to emerge on the blues scene during the post-WWII era

Even knowing Gregory as well as he did, he was still surprised when their lives slid together so completely that there was barely any friction. Sometimes Gregory's clutter irritated him, and Gregory got annoyed when he could not find something he had put down, only to find that Mycroft had put it away. This was solved partly by a division of Mycroft's flat into his space, Gregory's space, and their space.

After a brief discussion, they agreed that each man would have his own office. Mycroft hired movers to clear out the room he had been using as a third bedroom, and let Gregory decide what he wanted to do with that extra space. All of Mycroft's money and manpower would be devoted to making his love happy.

He was confused when Gregory said he wanted to do it all himself. "It's my space," Gregory said. "I want to paint it, furnish it, and all that."

"You don't have to, my dear," Mycroft said. The idea of painting walls and moving furniture was so foreign he could not imagine why someone would want to when they had money to pay someone else to do those tasks. "I can take care of all of the details."

Gregory gave him a look that said he did not understand. Mycroft hated not understanding. "I want to do it, though. It's fun!"

"Fun?" Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Gregory nodded. "I know you don't get it, baby, but take my word for it. I want to do it on my own. If you want, I'll let you hire people to move the heavy furniture, but I'm bringing what I want from my place and then buying the new stuff myself."

Mycroft nodded reluctantly. "If you are certain, my dear…"

"Thanks," Gregory said, and kissed him quickly.

And that was why Mycroft heard Gregory singing when he came home from work late that evening. He had been called in for an emergency Friday afternoon, and was just now coming home Saturday evening. He had called and texted with Gregory frequently to let him know how he was doing and when he would be home, but he missed him dearly. Mycroft looked in the kitchen, and saw the remnants of cooking and cleaning. He knew that he would find several glass containers in the refrigerator with delicious food, all ready to be warmed and plated for him. He followed the sound of Greg's voice and the sultry sound of blues guitar into Gregory's new office.

The room had changed completely. Gregory had finished painting the walls a light blue, and it looked like a second coat was drying. Gregory's old couch had been pushed into the center of the room and covered with a blanket. Gregory himself was just peeling some painter's tape from one of the windows. Gregory had smears of paint on his cheek and in his hair, and splatters on his t-shirt and jeans, which looked like they had been through previous painting disasters. 

To make matters even more disturbing, Gregory was singing along with the deep voice. "I don't want you to wash my clothes. I don't want you to keep my home. I don't want your money, too." Gregory swayed low to the ground, his hips moving in rapid thrusts in time to the base and drums. His shirt rode up a little bit as he moved. "I just want to make love to you… love to you… love to you."

Gregory looked, to borrow modern parlance, hot. He looked up as Mycroft entered the room, and smiled.

"You're home!" Gregory said, throwing the tape down onto the covered floor. "I'd hug you, but- mrph."

Mycroft grabbed him, pulled him close, and kissed him hard. Gregory wrapped his arms around him, and enthusiastically returned the kiss. The music continued as they kissed, and Gregory started to move with the music, encouraging Mycroft to dance with him. Mycroft could ballroom dance with the best of them, but he had never danced to anything like this.

"Just relax, baby," Gregory said, resting his hands on Mycroft's hips. "Follow me."

"I missed you," Mycroft said.

"I missed you, too," Gregory replied. He laughed softly. "I got paint on your suit."

"I don't care," Mycroft replied. "You make me forget everything."

"Good," Gregory replied. "Just let Muddy Waters's music move you. It's just like making love, and you are very good at that."

Mycroft blushed, but continued as the next song started playing.

"How do you like the room so far?" Gregory asked.

"It looks excellent," Mycroft said. "Like a professional painted it, and the color is suitable for you."

"Thanks. I used to be a painter when I was younger. It was a great way to earn money."

"I didn't know that," Mycroft said, thinking back to the file he had read on Lestrade all those years ago.

"Did a lot of jobs before I ended up as police officer," Greg said, moving their hips together, and encouraging Mycroft to follow.

"Chef?" Mycroft asked.

Gregory laughed. "I learned a lot when I worked at a bakery for a few months." He kissed Mycroft gently, then said, "That reminds me. Food for you because I know you haven't been eating properly, shower for me because I'm a mess, then lots of sex."

Mycroft felt faint. "Sex now?" he asked hopefully. Gregory's display and their subsequent dancing had made him eager to continue.

Gregory laughed, and kissed him again. "Food first, then sex, then shower, then more sex. How does that sound?"

"Amazing," Mycroft said honestly.


	24. Chop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chop (verb) – 1. to cut into or sever usually by repeated blows of a sharp instrument; 2. to strike (something, such as a ball) with a short quick downward stroke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for non-specific violence.

It took Anthea a few minutes to realize where she was and whom she was with. She was on the floor, tied up, next to an unconscious Mycroft Holmes. The diplomat with whom they were meeting had betrayed them, and they had been subdued with fists and drugs. She was not sure where they were, but they were in great danger. Her hands were tied behind her and her feet were tied together. Thankfully her hands and feet were not also tied to each other, unlike Mr. Holmes, who was bent nearly backwards. She calmly noted blood on his head, probably from a blow. Whoever had done this hated Mr. Holmes, and she had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She awkwardly rolled to her knees, and then tried her best to nudge Mr. Holmes. "Sir. Sir!"

Nothing. She noted that he was alive, but otherwise she could not ascertain how injured he was.

She stood, and surveyed the room. Listening for a few minutes told her that they were alone, although she could hear marine traffic close by. Several grunts and gasps of pain later, she was able to slide her arms out under her feet so that her hands were in front of her. The idiots who had captured them had not removed her shoes. She unscrewed one of the heels, and used the hidden knife to chop through her ropes.

She removed Mr. Holmes's bindings, and moved him onto his back, careful not to shift him too much. His shallow breaths and pale skin made her suspect shock, so she dragged an abandoned crate over and propped his legs on it. She rested her hand on his chest, feeling it move up and down, as she assessed the situation.

Escape, find help, and bring help back. She searched Mr. Holmes quickly, already knowing that their kidnappers had taken his phone, wallet, and anything that might be helpful. She opened up his waistcoat, and removed the set of locks she knew had been sewn into the hem of this particular one, and set about unlocking the door. It took her less than 60 seconds.

She looked back at Mr. Holmes. She did not want to abandon him, but she also knew that she could not carry him, especially since she did not know whether their kidnappers were still around. It was a risk, but she knew what Mr. Holmes would tell her to do.

Neutralize the security threat. Protect our country. That is your first duty.

She turned back to him, and took his hand, promising she would return for him, and then hurried out of the house.

 

As an attractive woman with a "broken" shoe, she attracted attention almost immediately, and was able to use the phone in the back of the nearest pub. She called their secure number and gave details to their security. They would dispatch a heavy guard and an ambulance. She took a deep breath, and called Greg.

The phone picked up after two rings. "Hello?" Greg's confused voice answered. Oh yes, the caller id would show the pub.

"Mr. Lestrade?"

"Anthea? Thank god! Where are you? What happened? We've been looking everywhere for you."

"I have alerted security. I need to get back to Mr. Holmes." She told him the address, and then ended the call. She felt a twinge of guilt, but Mr. Holmes was unconscious with no one to protect him. Greg would understand.

She ran back to the house, after stealing a knife and a bottle of water from the kitchen and lifting an illegal firearm from some idiot by the bar. Mr. Holmes had not moved from his position.

"Mr. Holmes, I am here when you awaken. Our position is secure, and we are waiting for backup. I also informed your boyfriend of our location. I believe your brother was with him. I could hear him causing a commotion over the phone. And wherever your brother is, John is not far behind. They will be here shortly."

She stopped. Mr. Holmes was still breathing, but he looked grey. "If you would be so kind as to wake up, sir, I would appreciate it. You know you should not engage in napping on the job."

She took off her jacket, and placed it over him. Keeping a person in shock warm was important. She took a sip from the bottle of water, and continued speaking. "Henry and I have discussed what to purchase for you as a wedding present. Of course, you have not proposed yet, but it is only a matter of time. We are inclined towards baby or toddler clothes. You will need them when you eventually adopt. You have not discussed that either."

She continued to talk, keeping her gun trained on the door and her hand in Mr. Holmes 's. He seemed to stabilize as she talked, but she knew someone needed to come soon or else he would get worse.

When help arrived, they arrived all at once. Security burst into the room, and secured the area. Then an ambulance arrived. As they were working on Mr. Holmes, Lestrade ran into the room, followed quickly by Sherlock and Dr. Watson.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, kneeling as close as he could to Mr. Holmes's head.

"Robinson betrayed us," Anthea said. As she spoke, she realized that her body ached. She felt light-headed. "I do not have all of the details, but based on Mr. Holmes' injuries, it was personal rather than political."

Sherlock, her nemesis, took her elbow to steady her. He had caused Mr. Holmes so much grief over the years, and she disliked him intensely for that. But these past few years, he had softened. She could appreciate the changes in the man, even if she still did not like him.

The paramedics lifted Mr. Holmes onto the gurney after securing his neck and back. Mr. Lestrade followed them, intending to go with the ambulance. She preferred it that way. Mr. Lestrade could watch over Mr. Holmes while she worked with Sherlock and Dr. Watson to solve this mystery.


	25. Prickly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prickly (adjective) – 1. full of or covered with prickles; 3a. troublesome, vexatious; 3b. easily irritated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will conclude with tomorrow's prompt, Stretch.

Mycroft projected an air of calm and collectedness. He had learned that pretending to be when he was not made dealing with people and incidents a lot easier. But as they got closer to the wedding, it was harder to hide his fear that everything would go wrong. His suit would cease to fit him the morning of the wedding because he had gained weight. Some international incident would force him to leave halfway through the ceremony. Gregory would suddenly realize whom he was marrying and leave.

That was the worst fear. He could handle sartorial disasters and international mischief, but Gregory leaving him would break him completely.

He found himself becoming increasingly prickly with everyone, Gregory especially. If Gregory was going to leave, he wanted Gregory to leave now, while he could still protect himself. He hated what he was doing. Even as he reveled in their lovemaking and cuddled next to him during movie nights, he behaved poorly.

That night he complained about Gregory's cooking, which had not been unsatisfactory at all. Gregory had gotten home from work, and whipped something up in time for Mycroft to return home. Mycroft nearly cried from the pleasure of coming home to such a man. And yet, he feared how deeply he loved him.

"What has gotten into you, Mycroft? Why is suddenly everything I do not good enough?" Gregory said, his dark eyes filled with hurt. He stormed out of the room, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door as he exited the flat.

Mycroft sat alone at the dining room table.

 

Mycroft drank more than he should have especially after eaten so little. He staggered to bed, and tried to fall asleep. He was restless, searching for the warm body he had gotten used to. He suffered from nightmares. Humiliating nightmares showed him how hubristic he had been thinking that he could keep Gregory happy. Jealous and guilty dreams showed him on the outside as Sherlock and John grew old together while he sat alone in his cold flat waiting for death. Nightmares showed him being left at the altar, or returning home one day to find all of Gregory's things gone, or watching Gregory marry someone more deserving than he was.

He woke in the morning feeling awful. Gregory had not returned home during the night. Mycroft's chest hurt, and he let it burn because he deserved it.

Pale, eyes bloodshot, and silent, he rode into work. He had chosen a black suit with little in the way of his usual sparkle. He felt in a mourning mood. Henry was careful not to be obvious in his alarm when Gregory did not step out with him, but Mycroft suspected that he had texted Anthea before they had even left the curb.

Anthea, subdued and professional, met him at work, and they plowed through curated research on burgeoning nuclear programs in the east. Nuclear armament always put Mycroft in a bad mood, and this was about as black a depression as he had experienced a few years.

When Anthea stepped out to get them lunch, Mycroft looked at his phone. No texts and no calls. Mycroft wondered how long it would take for Gregory – Lestrade – to remove his things from their flat. He wondered how he would ever be able to return to that place. Exhausted, fighting tears, he rested his head on his desk. Soon he was asleep.

 

A hand rested on his shoulder. Mycroft blinked awake, and murmured, "Gregory." He then realized it was not Gregory's, and his heart sank. He sat up.

Sherlock stared at him. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and straightened his clothes in sharp, quick movements. "Good afternoon, Sherlock. What may I help you with?"

Sherlock stared at him harder, and said, "You are an idiot."

Mycroft felt himself crumble a bit. "Yes," he answered. "If you are speaking in reference to Gr- Lestrade, then yes, I am."

"You're to be married in a month," Sherlock said. "And yet you behave in a childish manner. Do you want to end up alone?"

Mycroft looked away. "It's what I deserve Sherlock."

Sherlock cocked his head, and said, confused, "You deserve to be happy, as appalled as I am to say such a thing out loud."

"I have many faults," Mycroft said. "You know this very well."

Sherlock huffed. "Some would say that I have as well. I choose to ignore them, unless John is upset."

Mycroft smiled despite himself. Sherlock had many faults, but loving John Watson was not one of them. He was very proud of his brother. "You are deserving of that love, brother, and you should do everything to keep it."

"Lestrade loves you," Sherlock said. "You should do likewise."

Mycroft shook his head. "I love him," he said, and then sighed. "I love him more than anything or anyone except perhaps you. He deserves… so much more than I can ever give him."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, and decided to address the wall rather than his brother. "I am of a firm opinion that your heart is a rare gift and as such should be prized above rubies. Lestrade is not a stupid man either. He knows this."

"I am no prize, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Gregory is the most amazing of men. Handsome, smart, honest. He deserves a partner of equal merit."

"Lestrade has chosen you."

Mycroft nodded. "This would be his second marriage. I wish for it to be perfect for him, and yet, how can I, an imperfect person, make him happy?"

Sherlock looked at him. "You are scared?"

Mycroft shuttered. "Terrified."

Sherlock said, "I don't think I've ever seen you this scared before."

Mycroft closed his eyes. "That is because you do not recall certain events during which I thought you were dead."

Sherlock returned to addressing the wall. "Perhaps not. Perhaps… I did not wish to remember your tears."

Mycroft rested his elbow on his desk, and then his head in his hand. "I want Gregory to see the worst of me. I want him to know. I want him to leave now before we are married. I could not bear to see him leave after."

"Marriage is the deadline?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft thought about last night, the dishes still on the dining room table this morning. He would rather throw them out than look at them to clean them. "I suspect he might be gone when I return home tonight. I was unreasonable last night."

"And if he has gone, what will you do?"

Mycroft felt the ice in his veins. "I don't know," he replied simply. "Move perhaps. I do not wish to remain where I had been so happy with Gregory."

"Then what will you have accomplished by all this?"

"His happiness," Mycroft said.

A new voice interrupted their conversation. "My happiness is with you," Gregory said, stepping into the room.

Mycroft stood straight up as if he had been set on fire. Then he wobbled a bit on his feet because he had not eaten for about 24 hours. Gregory rushed to his side, and embraced him, steadying his body and also his soul.

"The deadline is the wedding?" Gregory asked.

Mycroft nodded, looking to his brother. He realized that Sherlock had gotten him to talking while Gregory was a witness – just as he had that day when Gregory ran after him and jumped into his car.

"Let's get married now," Gregory said.

"What?" Mycroft said, surprised. "Nothing is ready. The venue, the suits, the invitations-"

Lestrade interrupted him. "I don’t need any of that, Mycroft. I only need you."

"I- how can that be?" Mycroft asked, his arms wrapping around Lestrade.

"I love you, you ridiculous, prickly man," Gregory said, smiling happily at him. Mycroft could still see the upset and fatigue on his face, but he looked like his lovely Gregory. "Now, will you marry me? Right now?"

"Right now? Yes, but Gregory-"

"No buts! Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, and said, "Everything is ready."

"Good," Gregory said, and took Mycroft by the hand. "Let's go."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. "Lestrade came to see me last night," Sherlock answered his unasked question. "We informed Anthea of our idea, and she pulled the strings to get you married today at the registry office."

"But the wedding is not for another month."

"The ridiculousness with the ceremony and standing around and cake?" Sherlock said, scoffing a bit. "You can have cake anytime, Mycroft."

"Do you really want all that," Gregory asked, looking unsure.

He remembered as a child his parents discussing their wedding and how grand Mycroft's would be when he finally got married. More recently, he remembered mother's tears and father's anger as he informed them of his impending marriage. "No. No, I just want to be with you."

"Good answer," Gregory said, pulling him close.


	26. Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thunder (noun) – 1. the sound that follows a flash of lightning and is caused by sudden expansion of the air in the path of the electrical discharge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for dropping from the face of the earth for a week and also because this is not a continuation of the marriage prompt. I've got part of it written, but this has been a rough week for me. It's a combination of a abnormal CT scan and the combination of horrors in US politics, especially the awfulness in Pittsburgh. But I am determined to continue. I just wasn't feeling very sexy. So, anyway, here's a couple new prompts.

Greg entered the TV room, a glass of wine in each hand, to see two dachshunds attempting to burrow under Mycroft's blanket. Mycroft was attempting to calm them.

"It is just thunder, my loves. It cannot hurt you."

Amanda whimpered, and successfully burrowed under the blanket. Angus saw Greg approach, and started a full-body tail-wag.

"Storm bothering them?" Greg asked, handing Mycroft a glass of wine.

"Yes, poor dears." Mycroft sipped at his wine as he petted Amanda through the blanket.

Greg sat down, and patted his lap. Angus clambered up as quickly as he could, circled a couple of times, and then settled in Greg's lap. Greg adjusted his body so that his back was against the arm of the couch and his bare feet were buried under Mycroft's blanket, resting against his thigh. Angus sighed, and snuggled close.

A loud crack of thunder made Amanda rise up, still covered by the blanket, and start to bark furiously at the storm.

"Maybe we can distract them with a movie," Greg said.

"Nothing with a lot of explosions."

"No car chases?"

Mycroft sighed. "Maybe one. I did choose the last movie we watched together."

Gregory grinned. " _Fast and Furious_?"

Mycroft glared at him.

" _Deadpool_?"

"Not tonight, my dear. I have a headache."

Greg laughed. " _Duck Soup_?"

Mycroft smiled, and shuddered with theatrical horror. "Too much like work, Gregory."

"How about _Plan 9 from Outer Space_? Suitably weird and awful, and we both enjoy it."

Mycroft nodded. "I shall need cuddles during the scenes that are supposed to be scary."

"We should cuddle up now, baby, after I put the DVD in."

That task complete, they shifted so that they were in their usual movie-watching positions. Mycroft was under Greg's arm; they had one hand on each other, and the other hand on a dog. 

As the movie started, Greg sighed with contentment. A jug of wine, two loaf-dogs, and thou watching beside me a hilariously bad movie: paradise.


	27. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gift (noun) – 1. a notable capacity, talent, or endowment; 2. something voluntarily transferred by one person to another without compensation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References the previous prompt, Whale.

Today had been a wonderful day, Mycroft thought. Gregory had asked him to come visit the London Aquarium with his nieces. Olivia and Maisie were adorable, smart but not precocious, and for some reason they liked to be around him. They would grab his hand and tug him to watch the seahorses or when they were frightened by the sharks. They shared ice cream, and listened with rapt attention when he told them about the turtles he had seen a long time ago on a trio to Orlando. Gregory beamed with pride when he saw how well they were getting on.

The first time Gregory kissed him in front of the girls, he had panicked. Parents should not be so forward in front of their children. What if one of the girls complained to her parents about Uncle Greg's boyfriend and he never saw them again? As always Greg taught him not to worry, and he had even reached the level of comfort where Gregory could kiss him in front of the penguins and he immediately would not look around for trouble.

He purchased copes of the entrance photos for them all and key rings for the girls. Gregory purchased t-shirts for the girls. He had promised Mycroft a gift for later, which left his senses heightened. As they were dropping off the girls at their parents – all four of them in Gregory's Ford, Olivia and Maisie turned to each other, and then Olivia said, "Maisie and I wanted to give you a gift. We talked about it, and saved up our allowances."

Maisie nodded, and handed Mycroft a bag from the aquarium. Mycroft, shocked, accepted it. He looked to Gregory, who also looked surprised. Mycroft opened the bag, and saw a baby penguin stuffed toy. "A penguin," he said, pulling it out of the bag.

The girls nodded. "We saw the whale in your office," Olivia said.

"We didn't mean to snoop, but we were looking for you," Maisie reassured him.

"So we knew you'd like stuffed toys," Olivia continued. "We spent a lot of time watching the penguins."

"You really liked them."

"Plus we read a book about penguins."

"Like you and Uncle Greg."

"Who adopted an egg."

"And raised it after it hatched!"

"And since we'd like a brother."

"And mummy and daddy said, "No, probably not."

"We wanted to encourage you."

"Because we love you."

"You make Uncle Greg happy!"

Silence. Mycroft blinked back stunned tears. Gregory was trying his hardest not to laugh.

"Thank you for his lovely gift," Mycroft said. "I shall treasure him, and think about what you have said."

Both girls squealed, and tried to hug him at once.

 

Back in the car, Mycroft held the penguin in his hands, thinking about what Olivia and Maisie had said. Mycroft glanced at Gregory, who was driving, and said, "When I was younger, I wanted to adopt. My parents would not hear of it. I gave up on that dream when I chose to devote myself to the pursuit of my career."

"And now?" Greg said, returning his glance and smiling.

"The dream has been on my mind for many months. You would be an excellent father, Gregory. You would balance out my personality. I think we could raise happy children. But… what do you want?"

"I wanted children; my ex-wife did not. Then we both started full-time jobs, and neither of us would have been able to care properly for kids." Gregory looked at him again, and said, "I would be honored to adopt kids with you."

Mycroft rested his hand on Gregory's knee, squeezing gently. "We should have a plan, about how we shall adjust our work lives so that our children shall not want for our attention."

"We'll make it work," Gregory replied, resting a hand over Mycroft's.


	28. Double

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double (verb) – 1. to make twice as great or as many as

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets the in-laws, so there will be homophobia and homophobic slurs.
> 
> I also just realized that I didn't actually use the word "double" in this prompt. However, there are double the number of in-laws in this prompt, so I hope that counts.

Greg entered the sitting room at 221b, and then realized that he had walked into something emotionally fraught. Sherlock had guests, an older couple. Greg had knocked, and Sherlock told him to enter so Sherlock must want him there. Sherlock looked frazzled, similar to when Mycroft was overcome with emotions and did not know how to deal with it. The older man looked angry; the older woman had that same pacifying face of a woman who was used to her husband's violence.

"Hello, Sherlock," Greg said. "Didn't realize you had guests."

"These are my parents, Lestrade."

That explained a lot, Greg thought. He had heard some about Mycroft and Sherlock's parents from both brothers, and he had intuited a lot more from what they did not say. Greg smiled at them, despite wanting to punch their dad in the face. "Pleased to meet you," Greg said.

Their dad grimaced; their mum smiled in a conciliatory manner. Their mum said, "Mycroft's…"

"Kept man," their dad answered, snorting. He turned to Sherlock. "You still live in a den of sin. First, drugs; now, perversion."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft and Greg are married, and are therefore not living in sin. Plus, they do not live here. John and I are currently living in sin, but we shall be married in two weeks time, henceforth no longer living in sin. What is your point?"

"You will not marry a man!" dad shouted, pointing at Sherlock. Only years of knowing Sherlock allowed him to see the slight shrinking back. He had seen that response in many an abused child.

Greg saw red, and moved to stand closer to Sherlock. "Sherlock is a grown man, able to make his own decisions."

"Sherlock is a spoiled brat who makes terrible decisions and does not consider anyone but himself." Dad had resumed an icy façade, and Greg recognized elements of Mycroft's behavior. So this was the person who taught his Mycroft to hide himself.

"John is not a mistake, papa," Sherlock said, sulky and hurt. "He has helped me grow immensely."

"That's what friends are supposed to do," dad said, "but you have perverted that friendship with sex, and-."

"That's enough of that," Greg said loudly, not exactly shouting, but a few seconds away from that. "Sherlock does not need your permission to marry."

"He does if he wants to stay in my will." Dad's voice was vicious and sharp; he intended to wound as deeply as possible. "And as he has no money and a 'career' that promises little but accolades, he needs his allowance and the promise of future money in order to live."

"You'd cut off your son?"

"My only son now," dad replied.

Greg blinked. "I know you removed Mycroft from your will, but you are cutting all contact with him?" Sherlock squawked awkwardly. Had he not known about Mycroft? Greg forced himself to relax his shoulders before saying, "I'm glad. He's always upset after a visit with you."

"You cut Mycroft from the will?" Sherlock yelled.

Mother spoke for the first time. "Now, my dear, do not become upset. It was necessary."

"But he's your eldest son!"

"Not anymore," dad replied. "He has failed in his duties as my eldest son. I want an heir, and you are the only one left."

"If I were to give you an heir, I'd make sure to keep the child as far from you as possible!" Sherlock was yelling, but his arms were wrapped around his body, protective.

"You-"

"Are you threatening a man in his own house while in the presence of a detective?" Greg said, standing to face dad fully.

Dad stopped. "You wouldn't dare-"

"Try me. I seen what you are doing to Sherlock; I've seen what you've done to Mycroft. I know the signs of abuse. I will be happy to see you in a cell after all you've done."

"How dare-"

"You are done threatening your kids!" Greg was now yelling. "What kind of man bullies and slaps his kids? What kind of man threatens to stop supporting them? What kind of man mocks his kid for kicking an addiction, contributing to society, and finding love? Sherlock is a hundred times more a man than anything you could be! Now get the hell out of his flat!"

Dad was shocked; so was mum. Sherlock gaped at him like he had just appeared naked in their flat.

"You will regret this," dad said.

"No, we won't. Now get the fuck out!"

Dad stormed out of the room; mum looked at her son, then Greg, and then hurried after him.

Sherlock still looked shocked. Greg said, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock shook his head. Greg guided him to the couch, and then sat down next to him. Sometimes the Holmes brothers' brains went on overload, and only time helped them to unravel whatever had gummed up the works. Greg texted John, then texted a warning to Mycroft that his parents were on the warpath, and finally embraced Sherlock. Sherlock's head rested on his shoulder.

"It'll be okay."

 

Greg returned home to an empty house. Mycroft must still be at work, Greg thought. He texted a quick message asking when Mycroft would be home, and started in on dinner. He poured himself a scotch, and sipped as he cooked. His phone rang, and he smiled when he saw the caller id.

"Hello, mum."

"Greg, love. How are you?" His mother's familiar London accent washed over him, and he felt himself relax.

"I'm okay. Had my first run-in with Mycroft's parents. His dad was brow-beating Sherlock about marrying a man."

Louise sighed, and he could hear the faint chopping noises as she prepared dinner on the other side of London. "Sounds like a piece of work, that man."

"I was expecting bad, and he was even worse."

"How's Sherlock now?"

"John returned home fairly quickly, and vowed to beat the crap out of him if he ever turned up again. Sherlock offered up various ways to dispose of the body."

Louise laughed. "And what did you say, Mr. Police Man?"

"Offered to bring a shovel." Greg shifted the phone to his other shoulder so that he could root through the fridge. Mycroft had attempted to impose order in the fridge, and Greg told him off. Never touch a cook's fridge unless you wanted to lose a few fingers. "Their dad said some horrible things."

"Poor dears," she said. "And how's Mycroft handling this? You said his dad cut him off."

"Yeah, but Mycroft wasn't too bothered by it. He's got more money than he knows what to do with."

"It must have bothered him in other ways."

Greg grimaced. "It's not really my place to say, mum. Mycroft's very private, and-"

"You are very sweet to him, love. I hope he realizes how lucky he is to have you."

"He's said that exact thing to me," Greg replied, and grinned when he heard his mum's delighted noise.

"You must bring him to meet your dad and me. We are just dying to see him for ourselves. He sounds like a marvel."

"He is. I'll see if he's free sometime this week."

Greg heard the front door open, and then Mycroft call his name. "In the kitchen," he called back. "Mum, I've got to go. Mycroft is home. I'll call you back tomorrow with a date?"

"Okay, love. You take care, and tell Mycroft I said hello."

"You, too. Bye, mum."

"Bye, Greg."

Greg was just putting his phone down as Mycroft entered the kitchen. Mycroft was wearing what Greg privately referred to as his fuck-up suit because Mycroft wore it whenever he was preparing to fuck up someone's day/life/career. Mycroft's arms went around him, and he leaned against Greg's back, bestowing a kiss against his neck. He sighed, and rested against Greg.

"Long day?" Greg asked.

"Dreadful, and that was before my parents entered stage left." Mycroft kissed Greg's ear, then nuzzled his hair. "Whom were you talking to just now?"

"Mum. She says hello, and she wants us to stop by so she and dad can meet you. Thought maybe we could go for Sunday lunch, if you are free."

He could feel the tension in Mycroft's embrace at the suggestion, so he put down his spoon, and turned in Mycroft's arms so that he hug him in return. Mycroft looked worried and a little fearful. "Mum loves you, baby. She and dad want to meet you because I've told them so much about you. She's told me many times how much better I look, and she knows it's because of you."

Mycroft nodded reluctantly. "She will not be upset that I'm a man?"

Greg shook his head. "She's known for a while that I'm bisexual. Dad's fine with it, too. Took him a little bit, but he's seen how miserable I was in my old marriage, how hard I tried to make it work, and now how happy I am."

Mycroft thought for a few moments, and Greg waited patiently. "I am free on Sunday," Mycroft said. "It might be nice to get out of the city center for a bit."

Greg kissed him lightly. "It'll be fun. You'll love them."

"I shall have to find a gift for your parents."

"They both enjoy bribery." Greg laughed. "Mum likes gaudy tat, and dad is into video games."

"I shall find something suitable for them both," Mycroft said, pulling him closer.

"I can't wait," Greg said. He had wanted his parents and Mycroft to meet for a while now, and this was the perfect time.


	29. Jolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolt (noun) – 1. an abrupt, sharp, jerky blow or movement; 2a. a sudden feeling of shock, surprise, or disappointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been a while since I've posted. Had some medical tests, and got sick. I'm also working on a bigger story, but I want to have it mostly written before I post anything.
> 
> So this is Mycroft meets Greg's parents. This is before they get married, in case the timeline is weird.
> 
> Not beta-read so hopefully there aren't any embarrassing typos. Please let me know if you catch any. Also, this is the first x-rated scene I've written in a while, so it might be a little rusty.
> 
> And finally, thanks to my best friend, Vicky (Muldvarp_Dronning), for letting me bounce ideas off her, helping me with Greg's parents, and introducing me to my first British Sunday lunch. It was delicious.

Mycroft woke up. He could tell without looking at the clock that it was still early. A year ago he would have immediately begun thinking about his tasks for the day ahead and how they fit into his weekly, monthly, and yearly agendas. Oh this day, however, he found himself just enjoying the warmth and lethargy of the early morning hours. He felt comfortable and safe, unusual feelings for him.

He turned slowly onto his other side so that he could see Gregory, who was lying close but faced away. He edged closer so that he could fit himself more firmly against Greg's back, wrapping an arm around his waist, and sighed contentedly, letting himself drift in pleasant thoughts. Greg pushed closer, but otherwise remained asleep.

Eventually even Greg's glorious butt and strong shoulders could not distract him from what would happen later today. He was going to meet Greg's parents. Yesterday he has spent the afternoon tearing through his entire wardrobe looking for something suitable to wear. Since starting their relationship he had acquired more casual clothes, but he was uncertain he should dress casually if he was going to impress Greg's parents as to his suitability as a partner. Eventually Greg has wandered into the bedroom with a tea, kissed him, randomly grabbed something from a hanger, and told him to wear it. After some more fussing, he decided on a caramel colored suit with a green sweater vest underneath and a whimsical tie with umbrellas that Greg had given to him. He enjoyed wearing it in front of Sherlock because it made Sherlock spasm with distaste.

He had made sure to clean and polish everything, but when he had started to search through Greg's wardrobe for suitable clothing for tomorrow, Greg had pilled him into the entertainment room, sat on him, and proceeded to feed him ice cream.

"Stop worrying," Greg muttered, startling him from his thoughts. "Mum and dad will love you."

"I don't see how," Mycroft said with reluctance. "I don't see how you love me."

"None of that, love," Greg said, turning onto his back so that he could look up at Mycroft. "You are a sweetheart, a softy, and they'll see through whatever barriers you put up, whether you mean to or not." Greg stroked his cheek as he spoke, his face full of emotion, his eyes bright and loving. Mycroft could not help but trust his words, even as he still felt the fear.

"I hope you are right," Mycroft said, leaning forward to kiss Greg gently.

"I know I am, but you'll see for yourself." Greg kissed him back, and then again.

 

Greg's parents, Stephen and Louise, lived outside of London proper, making the trip an easy one. Greg tried to get out to visit his parents when he could, but it was not always easy with his schedule. Stephen had been a doctor and Louise a teacher. They were both semi-retired now, although he still saw patients on occasion, she taught at the local preschool, and they both engaged in charity work. 

Rarely had Greg seen Mycroft so nervous about anything. Mycroft had replaced his work umbrella with a lighter shade umbrella that matched his suit. Greg thought it was adorable, but had not said anything because he realizes that the umbrella was more of a security blanket. Mycroft's hand clutched the handle tightly, a barely discernable shake to his hand. Greg rested his hand over Mycroft's, hoping to relax him. Mycroft smiled tightly at him, but otherwise looked like he was being driven to his execution.

Greg insisted he drive them to his parents. He enjoyed driving, but he also did not want his parents' first impression of his fiancé to be getting out of a big black car. He was wondering though if he should have let someone else drive so that he could concentrate on keeping Mycroft calm.

He pulled up in front of the house, and shut off the engine. He took Mycroft's hand from its death grip on his umbrella, and kissed it. "You'll be fine, love."

Mycroft nodded. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned forward and kissed Greg gently on the lips. "I love you," he murmured.

"I love you, too, baby."

They exited the car, and Greg took Mycroft's hand as soon as he could. He could see that his mother already had the door open and was waiting for them.

 

Louise had heard so much about Mycroft from Greg, had even seen photos of him and knew what to expect, but seeing him in person was still a joy and a revelation. She had seen so many like him as a teacher, a shy boy who needed someone to trust and to listen to him. She had kissed many a bruised knee and offered many hugs to children over the decades, and she was not above giving them to grown boys, too.

Greg looked so much better than he had for a while. Her boy was gregarious and naturally kind, and it had hurt her to see him become sad and lonely as he worked a harsh job and with no comfort to come home to. She had warned him not to marry that woman, but he did anyway. She had hated being right. But now Greg was happy, holding hands with someone who clearly adored him. 

She opened the door and smile at him. "Greg, love, it's so good to see you!"

Greg grinned, and hurried up his pace, Mycroft trailing behind him with his umbrella and store bag. Greg had warned her that Mycroft intended to seek her favor with gifts. "Hello, mum!"

Greg let go of Mycroft so he could give her a huge hug, lifting her up off her feet and hugging her tighter just to show off how tall he had become. She laughed as he set her down, noting that he immediately took up Mycroft's hand.

"Mum, this is my fiancé, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, my mum."

Mycroft Holmes tried to show her a calm and poised exterior, but she could tell that he was shaking a bit. "I'm so glad to finally meet you. Greg here has told me so much about you. I feel as if I know you already." Greg had told her not to hold back, so she threw her arms around his shoulders, and brought him down for a hug. He tightened a bit, and she wondered if it was too much, but then he embraced her in return, relaxing a little.

"Come inside! I've got tea ready. Lunch will be an hour. I thought we'd chat for a bit, get to know each other."

"I can't wait for your Sunday roast," Greg said, showing off his dimples.

"You greedy, boy. Of course you can't," she said, tweaking one of his dimples with her fingers. He brushed her away playfully.

Mycroft was watching all of this, fascinated. She wondered if he had been denied such casual affection in his life. She was determined to teach him how to relax and enjoy it. She entwined her arm with his, and led him into the house. "I hope you like trifle for afters. I also baked some biscuits and scones. I wasn't sure which you would prefer with your tea."

Mycroft blinked, and then said, "Either sounds wonderful. Did Gregory get his kitchen skills from you?"

"He certainly did. He loved to eat so much that I made him learn so he could always feed himself proper. Although I know he cheats sometimes with takeout." She glanced back fondly at Greg, who gave her an innocent look.

"I have not endured an unhappy meal with him." Mycroft also glanced back at Greg. Louise was delighted when she saw how lost they became in each other. She nearly started to hop into a dance, but she held herself back.

"Stephen! Stop playing with the telly, and meet Greg's fiancé."

 

Stephen looked up from the wires he was inspecting to see his wife arm-in-arm with Greg's boyfriend, a tall and gangly fellow, who suddenly looked like he was about to be shot. Stephen narrowed his eyes. He liked what he had heard from Greg and from his wife, but he wanted to see for himself that this man was suitable for his little boy.

"So you're Mycroft Holmes, are you?"

"Yes, sir, and you are Dr. Stephen Lestrade?"

"I am." Stephen looked at his son, who was rolling his eyes. "I'm pleased to finally meet you." He stepped forward and offered a handshake. He took a moment to assess the man further. He had a bit of a weak chin, but the handshake more than made up for any perceived weakness. He would expect as much from a politician.

"And I you," Mycroft said.

"Tea is ready, dear, if you would like to sit down." Louise steamrolled through the awkwardness, and directed them to sit on the couches. Stephen watched as Mycroft looked for and received clues from Greg as to what he should do. They sat together, and Greg sought out Mycroft's hand. Mycroft twined his fingers with Greg's, and there they rested. For a moment Stephen remembered his own meeting with Louise's parents and how terrified he had been.

"Gregory said that you were a general practitioner," Mycroft said. Stephen gave him points for simply jumping into the fray.

"Yes, practiced in this house for 40 years. I still take patients when someone asks, but I've retired for the most part."

"Retired except when he travels to refugee camps to help those in need," Louise said as she came out with the tray.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at that, and said, "Retired, you say?"

Greg shook his head, and said, "You're not allowed to use that definition of 'retired' when you retire, love."

 

Stephen was still pondering Mycroft as he got close to the kitchen. Greg and Mycroft had offered to do the cleaning since Louise had cooked, and she gladly left it up to them, which allowed them to compare notes on what they saw. Louise was head-over-heals for Mycroft, but Stephen was not so sure. There was something Mycroft was holding back, and Stephen could not tell if it was serious or not.

Eavesdropping was a nasty thing to do, but this was his house so he could do whatever he wished, even if Louise would scold him about it later.

He heard the splash of water and the murmur of conversation, and got closer. Mycroft was elbow deep in suds while Greg was drying. He looked a bit absurd in yellow gloves, but it seemed like this was a common enough occurrence.

"How are you feeling?" Greg asked.

"Better," Mycroft said. "I don't think I've made any mistakes yet."

Greg leaned forward to kiss his cheek, and said, "You haven't, but you don't need to worry about mistakes. My parents are forgiving."

"Yes, but I do not wish for them to have anything which they must forgive. Your paramour should be above reproach. Nothing else will be good enough for you."

Greg shook his head, and said, "We all make mistakes. Are you going to get upset with me when I make mistakes?"

"Maybe, but we shall work them out."

"And we'll do the same thing when you make a mistake. That's what partnership is all about." Greg rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. "You're too hard on yourself, baby."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, although he rested his mouth and nose against Greg's forehead, breathing in to calm himself and then pressing a kiss to the skin. "You're father is harder to read. I do not think he approves of me."

Greg snorts. "He does. I think he and mum were playing good cop, bad cop for a bit, but he warmed up to you, especially towards the end, especially when he shared his precious player two control with you."

Mycroft shook his head. "I've never played a video game before now."

"No one wants to play against dad. You earned his respect by accepting the challenge… and by getting him that new game that's not out yet. He's going to go on the internet now and brag about it."

Mycroft smirked. "It helps to know a little about everything."

Greg laughed. "I bet you knew nothing about video games before now."

"Hm. What do you think I was reading about while you were asleep?"

"Instruction manuals," Greg murmured into his ear, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist.

Mycroft looked at him in shock. "Gregory!" At Gregory's wicked, playful smile, Mycroft blushed. "Those aren't as much fun without you there and awake."

Stephen backed away at that point, and returned to the sitting room. He gave Louise a thumbs up, and said, "We should decide what to wear for the wedding."

 

As they were leaving, Louise gave Mycroft a second hug, which he returned with relief. Stephen smiled at him, and gave him a hearty handshake. Mycroft realized with a jolt that he had been accepted. Greg's parents had met him and not found him wanting.

He kept his composure until they were in the car on the way home. "They approved," Mycroft said, stunned.

"I told you they would," Greg said, taking his hand.

"I, Gregory, this…" He could not finish his statement. He was unsure what he even wanted to say. He felt so happy and yet so nervous. He had been so wound up that he had been about to explode, but now he had this excess of energy that he could not release.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked, concerned.

Mycroft nodded, and then shook his head. "I feel energized," he eventually said.

Greg looked him up and down, and said, "We'll have to burn off this energy when we get home."

"I don't know if I can wait that long," Mycroft said. He moaned softly at the thought of being home, of finally having Greg against him.

"Oh god," Greg said, his eyes darkening.

"Why didn't you let the driver take us?"

"Oh god! I wanted to drive. I didn't realize my mistake!"

"Hotel," Mycroft said, pulling out his phone.

"It's only forty minutes home, then we can fuck against the walls as much as we like."

"God, don't say that."

"What, fuck?" At Mycroft's groan, Greg repeated, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Shit!" Mycroft said, his fingers trembling as he typed into his phone. "Here, turn here!"

 

Mycroft would never be quite sure how they managed to find the hotel and check in without being arrested for public indecency or going made from lust. As soon as they got into the room, Mycroft locked all the locks, and then reached for Greg, kissing him hungrily.

"Fuck yeah," Greg said, grabbing his ass and grinding into him. He gasped, whimpering, as Greg pushed him against the wall and pressed their hips together.

"Oh god, yes," Mycroft said, reaching for buttons, zippers, anything to get them naked. He didn't care that his expensive jacket was tossed to the floor or that he felt a button rip on his trousers. Frustrated by his lack of control, he slid his hand down Greg's trousers and began stroking Greg's cock.

Greg groaned against his neck, and bit down hard, fingers digging further into his ass. Mycroft cried out, and prayed that the rooms were sound proof.

"Clothes, off," Greg said, pulling away far enough to get them both out of their clothes. Mycroft raked his fingers through Greg's hair as he kissed Greg's cheeks and jaw, running his tongue against the stubble that was just beginning to show.

"What do you want, baby?" Greg asked once they were both naked. He ran his hands down Mycroft's back and up again, wanting to calm him enough for an answer.

"Fuck me, please, Gregory," Mycroft said, arms around his shoulders, pulling him towards the bed.

"I didn't bring…" Greg laughed when Mycroft produced like magic a small tube of lubricant.

"Gift shop," Mycroft said.

"Minx," Greg said, amused by Mycroft's preening and so in love with this man. He resumed kissing Mycroft, deepening the kiss as they grew out of control again.

He finally got some lube on his fingers, and was gently stroking two into Mycroft's body. Mycroft moaned with each stroke, biting his lip as he looked up at him. He had never had a partner who looked into his eyes so much during lovemaking. He loved it because he saw every little emotion, even little pleasure that Mycroft felt.

"Please, now," Mycroft said, sitting on one elbow so he could reach up for a kiss, his hand stroking Greg's hair back.

Greg nodded, and after slicking up his cock, slowly pressed into Mycroft's body. While they had experimented some, they both seemed to prefer face-to-face lying down. It gave them both the chance to kiss and touch as they wished. He waited for Mycroft to adjust to his cock, and at the soft telltale sigh and small nod, he kissed Mycroft softly as he pulled out slightly and then slowly back in.

Mycroft groaned, his back arching into Greg's strokes. "Yes, dearest, yes, please, harder, oh yes."

Greg murmured his own pleasure into Mycroft's ear as his strokes became harder and firmer. He knew he was hitting the right spot when Mycroft began to cry out softly at each press.

"Love you, baby," Greg murmured into his ear. "Love to fuck you. Love to love you."

"Love you," Mycroft panted between cries. "Love- so- much-"

Greg could have slowed down, made it last, but he knew what Mycroft really wanted was to be fucked hard, and then later more gently. There was always a later, and Greg would indulge himself as he brought out all those little sounds and cries from his lover's body. Now was about brute force; later was tenderness.

Greg leaned up a little so that he had more momentum, adjusted Mycroft's legs, and then slammed into him harder. Mycroft cried out, arms going around Greg's neck as he hung on for dear life.

"Soon, baby?"

Mycroft groaned his answer, and his body arched as he came hard, allowing Greg to admire the long length of his neck. Greg licked up that pale, freckled neck as he fucked Mycroft through his orgasm, his own not far behind.

"Come," Mycroft panted, still shuddering at the pleasure. "Come in me, love."

"Oh god," Greg said, slamming into him one more time, coming hard, Mycroft's body clenching around him.

He collapsed on top of Mycroft, panting heavily. Vaguely he heard someone pounding on the wall.

"Not soundproof," Mycroft murmured. They looked at each other, and both started to giggle.

"Wow, fuck me," Greg said, amazed by what had just happened.

"Give me a minute, and I shall." They giggled again, and started to kiss through the giggles.


End file.
